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NOVEL 


Price, 50 Cents 









The Devil and I. 





What ! Shall we call him a man — him who 
hath done this evil f He is not a man, he is a 
devil ; a devil who ‘‘stole the livery of a man, 
in which to play the villain. 


('may 2Ml889,r,;.j 


'Qt 


NEW YORK : 


G. 


Copyright, 1889, hy 

TV. Dillingham, Publisher, 
Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. 

MDCCCLXXXIX. 


[All Eights Reserved.] 


C.O 


TROW’8 

PmNTINA AND BOOKBINOtNQ COMPANY, 
NEW YORK. 



( 


Here^ within this tomh, let me make a request; 
a request to the one who may find these pages that I 
shall have tcritten^ who may offer them to a public 
curious enough to read tliem^ to read and to pity : that 
— whether I he living or dead; whether this tomh, in 
tchich I am now buried^ be indeed my tomb when I am 
dead; or whether j by some miraculous intervention^ I 
may again be permitted to live in the outer world of 
living life — that^ in offering them, these pages, to the 
people of every where, they may be especially offered 
to the people of the West 


ELLINOME. 



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THE DEVIL AND I 


PART I. 


CHAPTER 1. 

I ant aware that what I write in the madness 
of a horrible reality, in the despair of a horrible 
suffering, will be looked upon as the clever product 
of the imagination, or the dramatic effect of a dram- 
atic talent, perhaps as the fevered fancies of a dis- 
eased brain, anything, everything, but what it is — 
the truthful recital of an actual experience. There- 
fore, 1 do not write in the belief that what I write 
will be received as true, indeed, scarcely with the 
thought that it will be at all received. I have no 
reason to hope that it will ever be seen by the outer^ 
living world, of which 1 am no longer a part. 

I write because it is a relief to write. To think 
perpetually, without any alleviating distraction^ 
would in time end in madness — that dire relief, that 
frightful forgetting of one^s self, that I have not yet 
the courage to covet. To tell what I have thought. 


6 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


wLat I have felt, is of itself a distraction. The sim- 
ple act of writing with one’s hand relieves the work- 
ing of the brain. One comes to write of one’s self 
as of another self ; an intense desire to tell the 
truth as one has seen it, as one has felt it, the effort 
to tell it, helps this illusion. 

I shall not exaggerate. I have neither the desire 
nor the necessity to do so. The truth, strange as 
it is, is superlatively true. 

I am no longer among the living. I write from 
under the vault in which I am buried. Others have 
been buried alive, but they have speedily and effect- 
ually died. I am perpetually dying. However, the 
power to feel grows less as the dying goes on, and 
I am really dead to every sense but a dulling, numb- 
ing pain that never leaves me. This is the last 
phase of suffering; for suffering has its limit, and 
once it is reached, to experience again the fulness 
of pain, the victim must have again every sense re- 
born, requickened by hope. I have nothing to hope 
for,, and I am only waiting for the hour when I shall 
be as dead to myself as I am now dead to the world. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


% 


'CHAPTEE n. 

t 

What a blessed, satisfying experience is the retro- 
spect of a tranquil life ! Of a childhood as fair and 
sweet as childhood’s dreams ; of the noontide of 
life still loving and beloved ; of the evening of life 
with its serene present, its uneventful but unre- 
gretted past — the whole existence, ushered in from 
the beginning and rounded out to its close by a 
succession of ordinary but happy experiences that 
insure it an extraordinary peaceableness ; a peacea- 
bleness much desired but so impossible to possess 
by other and less fortunate beings who seem,' from 
their very birth, to have been marked by destiny for 
a turbulent existence. Or, is it that the organiza- 
tion — sensitive, passionate, and impulsive — of these 
beings, invites the emotional, the tragic, the men- 
tally, and often morally, devastating experiences — 
that like bad spirits roam abroad — as the diseased 
body receives more readily the floating germ of a 
terrible malady? However this may be, to these 
beings there is always something happening or 
likely to happen. They are continually upon the 
scene either as the sport of a comedy or as the 
victim of a tragedy. No condition of serene enjoy- 


8 


THE DEVIL AND I. 

ment is ever assured to them. An unseen hand 
seems always to be pushing them to the summit of 
enjoyment or of success, from which, when attained, 
another unseen hand always assures the fall. Thus 
their entire existence is a series of shocks. 

From my very birth my existence has been on 
agitated one. Extraordinary experiences have con- 
tinually thrust themselves upon me. Nothing in 
the past has been sure to me, but the surety that on 
undisturbed condition would be disturbed. No pos- 
session has been permanently mine, but this, the 
latest — ^the possession of despair. 

The woman I called my mother was a miser. 
She had never been married, and yet she was my 
mother. In order that I might never forget these 
two facts — ^that my mother was a miser, and that 
she had never been a wife — was constantly 
reminded of them. Little children, girls, as well 
as boys — and later, grown girls and boys — seemed 
to be happier in reminding me of that which was 
a torment and a shame to me. I never heard my 
mother called by her name, as other mothers are 
called by their names ; she was always the Miser 
and I was always ‘Hhe Miser’s daughter.’’ Deri- 
sion, contempt, and abuse were given to me, as my 
due ; as gifts, as smiles and loving words are given 
to happy children, as their due* How cruel even 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


9 


little children are to that which is helpless — chil- 
dren to whom a loving God has given a loving 
mother ! 

Heaven to my pained child existence was peopled 
with sweet faced mothers who loved their children. 
My mother hated me. To have a mother whom every 
one despised, to be hated by one’s mother, to have 
had a nameless father — is there a condition more 
mournful for a child? 

g Why did my mother hate me ? I did not know, 
unless it was that she hated my father for the shame 
of my birth — that had been the result of a fault 
equally hers. You are so like your father, and I 
hate you ! ” This was the conclusion of her every 
burst of ill humor; and I learned in my heart to 
pity that unknown and despised parent, of whom 
all I had ever known was that I was like him. She 
had never said whether it was in face or in temper- 
ament that I resembled him ; but child as I was, in 
observing how totally I was unlike my mother, I 
congratulated myself on my immense advantages 
of appearance and disposition, and I was grateful 
to my unknown father. 

These advantages were my compensation. I had 
not the love of a mother nor the friendship of child 
companions ; but I had that which singled me out 
from other children of other mothers — ^an uncom- 


10 


THE DEVIL AI^D 1. 


mon face and an uncommon mind. In spite of my 
wretched dress, strangers in the town where I lived, 
looked admiringly at me; visitors of the school 
especially regarded me, and spoke caressingly to 
me — strangers and visitors that did not know my 
shame, and that my mother was a miser. Little by 
little I made the discovery that a large part of the 
hate of the children and their mothers was due to 
my attractive face and clever mind. This knowl- 
edge, that I had something that they who despised 
me could not take from me, something desirable to 
have, something they envied me the possession of, 
this knowledge was the one satisfaction of my child 
life ; and with time I ceased to long for the affection 
that was lavished upon other children, and was less 
sensitive to the contempt and the abuse of those 
about me. 

The one purpose that took possession of my 
thoughts, was to acquire all the knowledge it was 
possible for me to acquire from my present advan- 
tages. I was ambitious not simply to excel others, 
but to do the best I was capable of doing. There 
was present with me, in a vague way, the impres- 
sion that I was not to be accountable to those who 
despised me, for what I was ; but that I should be 
accountable to myself, my soul self — that had no 
part in the world about me — for what I might yet 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


11 


be. There was present, too, the ivision of a time 
when my life in its accomplished purposes would 
be worthy of the respect of others whom I had not 
yet seen, as I myself would be worthy of the affec- 
tion of others whom I had not yet seen. This deter- 
mination to do, this vision of the done, made me 
even then, in a measure, indifferent to the unattract- 
ive life about me; an indifference that gave me a 
certain triumph over those who had a contempt for 
me. 

The one formidable enemy of my happiness and 
my success in those early years, as he was subse- 
quently the destroyer of my happiness and success 
in later years, was Marcus Pancho. He was the 
only child of a wealthy Spanish lady, who was a 
confirmed invalid, and who, after a prolonged and 
fruitless search for a climate that would prove effi- 
cacious in restoring health to her weakened body, 
finally decided to come to America, and to settle in 
the town where my mother lived ; a town that was 
noted for the peculiar invigorating effect of its cli- 
mate, and for other sanitary privileges that A^rs. 
Pancho hoped would be beneficial to her. 

The sudden advent of this distinguished looking, 
and apparently wealthy foreigner who was to live 
among them, as well as the singular beauty of the 
little Marcus, was a wonder, a more than a nine 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


days’ wonder, to tlie people of the town. However, 
Mrs. Pancho conducted herself as exemplary people 
do J and if there was anything extraordinary in her 
present, or in the past of her life, she succeeded — 
against the questioning tact of curious people — 
in keoping always, and effectually, the knowledge 
of it to herself. 

Marcus being the only child, and the idol of his 
mother, was fjetted, indulged, and spoiled, by her 
and her household, to a degree that distinguished 
him even among those known as superlatively 
spoiled children. Later, at an age when he most 
needed the advantages of a firm and judicious gov- 
ernment, the increased feebleness of Mrs. Pancho, 
and her subsequent death, left Marcus virtually 
master of himself, and of the household over which 
he ruled with the cruelty and caprice of a small 
tyrant. Heir to a large fortune, possessing no 
instincts, either from nature or from education, 
of self denial, he was led to believe there was noth- 
ing that his will could not bring about, or that his 
money could not buy. Fascinating in manner as 
he was tyrannical, possessing many natural gifts 
that he used for evil, he was admired as well as 
disliked, he was fawned upon as weU as feared by 
those who served Mm, and by those he imposed 
upon. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


13 


From my earliest recollection, my existence was 
identified with. his. My mother had made her first 
appearance in the town, and her final settlement 
there, some time before the advent of Mrs. Pancho. 
No one knew how my mother first introdced her- 
self I but, despised as she was by every one, she was 
permitted to enter, as often as she wished, the ele- 
gant home of Mrs. Pancho ; and it was always under- 
stood that she came to see the boy, for whom she 
had conceived a passionate liking. And what 
seemed still more strange, was that the little Mar- 
cus clung, with what seemed to be an instinctive 
fondness, to the woman who petted him and abused 
her own child. 

No one doubted the genuineness and the unselfish- 
ness of my^ mother’s affection for the boy. Mrs. 
Pancho had wished, for the child’s sake, to make 
the wretched dwelling of my mother something hke 
a home, at least in appearance; but, my mother 
doggedly refused all offers of assistance, and seemed 
to enjoy, more than anything else, the bringing of 
the boy, from time to time, to the miserable hovel we 
called our home. When Marcus was old enough to 
come himself, he came of his own will. 

I never ceased to wonder at all this. But wha^t 
seemed strangest to me, was the transformation of 
my mother into an unselfish, almost tender mother 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


a4 

towards the little Marcus, who w^as nothing to heir,' 
from the cruel, dreadful woman she was towards 
me, her own child. Other people wondered too, I 
knew; but when they ventured to express to her 
what seemed to them a strangeness and an impro- 
priety in the intimacy, Mrs. Pancho had but one 
answer: ^^What can I do? It is a whim of the 
child’s to like the woman, and you know I can never 
refuse him anything.” Then she added, with an 
affected indifference, “ But he will outgrow it, this 
whim, he will outgrow it.” 

But Marcus did not “ outgrow it ; ” and after the 
death of Mrs. Pancho, he came oftener than ever 
to my mother’s home. And it was a singular fact 
that he enjoyed privileges that might have been 
accorded to a favored child — more favored than I. 
He came at any hour he chose to come, and there 
was no part of my mother’s habitation that he 
might not appropriate. 

Naturally enough, an instinctive hatred of Marcus 
was the product of the first recognition of my 
mother’s liking for him. Was it this hatred of 
mine that incited in him a corresponding antago: 
nism to me, and that prompted him to augment, in 
.every conceivable way, each condition that might 
render my existence still more unhappy ? Or was 
his dislike the result of my mother’s teaching? 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


15 


Surely lie found in her an untiring ally in his perse- 
cutions of me ; and there was no restriction in her 
presence of his methods of tormenting me. 

But it was more than this mutual dislike of me,' 
that, after the death of Mrs. Pancho, continued to 
unite these two. It was a curious resemblance to 
each other. Between this handsome, petted, and 
spoiled young tyrant and the hard-featured, repel- 
lant, and despised woman, was the attraction of like 
to like. Their natural instincts of selfishness, 
cruelty, and viciousness, were similar in character 
and intensity. Sometimes I even fancied that the 
expression of one face was singularly the expres- 
sion of the other. 

However this may be, it would be impossible to 
designate the particular ills, the small tortures, 
inexhaustible as his vindictiveness, which the dia- 
bolical talent of my tormentor, applauded by my 
mother, enabled him to invent, and of which I 
was the victim, I do not remember a day of these 
early years that was not one of intolerable perse^ 
cution. 

To be fully prepared for my lessons during the 
daj'', I arose in the morning at the first dawn of 
light — for my mother’s rigid economy did not 
permit the luxury of a lamp or candle. As soon 
as it was practicable, Marcus appeared; and his 


16 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


coming was always preceded by a series of terrific 
thumps against my door, and a vociferous shouting 
of, '_‘Get up! Get up!’’ This thumping and this 
shouting was invariably continued until my tor- 
tured nerves, that could endure no more, forced me 
to open the door, and to permit him to enter. This 
interruption of my ^norning hours was rarely 
omitted, and while I studied, the expectation of it 
was of itself a torture; so that it was with the 
greatest difficulty that I accomplished aU that I 
had determined to accomplish. 

At other times, during my most uncertain hours, 
that is, during the hours that I could most surely 
count upon the interruptions of Marcus, I read. 
For, unlike my mind when I studied, nothing could 
entirely distract my thoughts from the pages which 
I was reading. In this way I succeeded in reading 
all the books that were lent to me by Mr. Sinclair— 
a benevolent man in the town, and the only being 
that had ever been kind to me, and who subse- 
guently befriended me in a manner that influenced 
my entire future. 

Going to and from my home, I was liable at any 
tirne to fall into traps or pitfalls, that the adroitness 
of my percenter had prepared for md. Sometimes 
a rope, concealed in the long grass of the meadow, 
through which I hurried along — was always 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


I7 

obliged to hurry — ^tripped me in passing, throwing 
me violently to thd ground. Thus I bore always 
upon my body, as well as upon my mind, some pain- 
ful mark of his cruelty. Wherever I went, what- 
ever I did, it was with the fear — ^that was sure to be 
realized — of undergoing some disagreeable experi- 
ence, some humiliating ordeal; or of encountering 
some unknown evil brought about by the fateful 
ingenuity of this evil-minded boy. This fear was 
to my young life like the terror that one feels when 
alone in the darkness of a strange place — ^the terror 
of advancing, at any moment, upon some unknown 
and frightful peril, more frightful because unknown. 

Although it was well known that Marcus had 
reserved me in a special way for his persecutions, 
no one would have suspected, from my outward 
manner, the degree of pain that I suffered from 
them. I bore them apparently with a stoicism that 
was half the result of pride, and half the result of a 
conviction of the utter uselessness of any opposi- 
tion on my part. But the cunning of Marcus was 
not to be deceived by any seeming indifference of 
mine. He knew, as well as I, the extent of my suf- 
fering due to him — a suffering that was to my child 
life an agony; and this knowledge was an enjoy: 
jnent to him. 

However, notliing so effectually combats the 


18 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


assaults of ill humor and a vindictive temperament, 
as a tacit and persistent refusal to resent them. It 
may not exhaust the persecutions, but it will, to 
a degree, diminish their ardor — for the heat of 
humor grows warmer with each provocation, as the 
fire burns more fiercely with every added particle 
of fuel ; and despite the efforts of my tormentor to 
discourage me, and the many difficulties that had 
retarded my progress, at the close of the term that 
marked me fifteen years of age, I stood at the head 
of every class. This w^as an honor that entitled me 
to a free tuition at a private school, where the 
higher branches were taught. This school, which 
was exclusively for girls, had been established, and 
^was maintained, by the excellent Mr. Sinclair, for 
the purpose of encouraging those who had natural 
ability, and who were diligent enough to render 
themselves worthy of its privileges. 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 19 


CHAPTER in. \ 

The day I entered this school was an epoch in 
my life. The conviction fastened itself upon me 
that upon what I should accomplish there, would 
depend my future of independence or subjection, 
of enjoyment or discontent. Every year, to the 
pupil who should successfully pass the examina- 
tion of each study, and who should also take the 
first prize for excellence in whatever study was de- 
cided upon, the benevolent founder of the school 
had offered a scholarship in any institution of learn- 
ing the pupil should prefer, where every advantage 
would be furnished, at his expense, to perfect her 
in whatever study she would choose. The school 
had been established for three years, and lib one 
had yet been able to accept the generous offer of 
Mr. Sinclair. I felt certain that I should pass suc- 
icessf ully every examination ; and I resolved to take 
the first prize for excellence in whatever particular 
study should be decided upon. I was still more 
determined to succeed when it was announced that 
the prize was to be given that year, at the close 
of Commencement day, to the pupil who had writ- 
ten, for that day, the best essay. 


20 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


When this announcement was made, I trembled 
in every nerve with a joy and satisfaction that 
were already the sweets of success. How could I 
fail ? In composition no one had presumed to equal 
me. In the whole town I had no rival in that. 
How grateful I felt to Mr. Sinclair ! The kind, 
good man ! I was sure he had thought of me when 
he decided that the prize should be for composition, 
and I determined that my benefactor, my one friend, 
should not be disappointed in me ; that I would win 
the prize; that I would deserve the scholarship. 
And then I should go away ; go to that far off city 
— ^I had already chosen New York. I should leave 
in triumph, probably forever, the town where I was 
hatedj and where I had so much suffered. Above 
all, I should effectually rid myself of Marcus Pan- 
cho ; and in the gladness of these thoughts, and of 
my coming emancipation, the humiliations of the 
pa^t were forogtton, the still painful persecutions 
of the present almost unheeded. 

During the weeks that followed, I was in a fever 
of excitement. I ate little and slept less. It was 
at this time that I made a strange discovery. 
Whether it was the natural development of a sin- 
gular susceptible nervous organization, or whether 
it was the effect of overwork and constant nervous 
excitement, I do not know ; but the fact is, that I 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 21 

found myself to be an unconscious doer of actions, 
a victim of a malady, the phenomena of which 
science has not yet been able entirely and satisfac- 
torily to explain — in short, I found myself to be a 
somnambulist. I made this discovery one morning 
after a night preceded by great mental fatigue. I 
had been working at a problem in geometry, which 
I had found extremely difficult, and which finally, 
tired out, I had left unfinished and had gone to bed. 
The next morning, to my amazement, I found the 
problem neatly and correctly worked out upon my 
slate. I persuaded myself that I had finished it 
before going to bed, and had forgotten the fact ,• but 
the same thing occurred again and again. Not only 
problems left undone at night were found done the 
following morning, but essays I had left ready to 
copy were found neatly copied, and lesson's um 
learned the evening before, I knew perfectly in the 
morning; in short, anything that I had not been 
able to do, or to finish, when I lay down to sleep at 
night, I found done, or finished, when in the morn- 
ing I awoke : so that I could no longer doubt the 
truth — ^that I was the victim, to an extraordinary 
degree, of a malady which — in rendering one’s 
actions so uncertain and so mysterious— is so much 
to be dreaded. 

The weeks passed rapidly. It was the evening 


22 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


preceding Commencement day. I had already ar- 
ranged everything in perf ect order, so that nothing 
should embarrass my preparations for the day that 
was to be so eventful for me. The white muslin 
dress, provided for me by Mr. Sinclair, lay on the 
chair ; the dress that I thought I should never want 
to wear again, after wearing it on the morrow, but 
that I should lay away in memory of that glad day. 
I looked at the well worn books with a sense of 
security in the belief that my memory would not 
fail me at the moment of recalling what their pages 
had taught me. I took up my essa}^, tied with lav- 
ender ribbons — ^the essay that was to decide my 
fate. I read it once more, for the last time, and 
with the satisfactory thought that it was as ])er- 
fect as T could make it ; then I laid it on the table 
beside me. I remember then to have seated myself 
in a low chair, where I sat quite stiU, and of flunk- 
ing, hardly conscious of what I thought. Suddenly, 
it seemed to me — ^for in my preoccupied state I had 
heard no sound — ^the door opened, and Marcus Pan- 
cho entered. That however was no surprise to 
me; for it was an intrusion that occurred every 
day, and at any hour. Marcus came when it 
pleased him to come; and there was no corner in 
my room, however sacred or secret, that he did not 
consider equally his. I had accustomed myself to 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


23 


think, and to a degree to act, precisely as though 
he were not present; so that I saw him, as in a 
dream, open the drawer and take out the original 
copy of my essay, and apparently read each page 
to the end, and then replace it again in the drawer ; 
after which he took up the finished copy, that I 
had laid upon the table, and read it , in its turn, 
and put it back also, precisely where he had found 
it. Then I heard him say, — 

Ah, Ellinore, my little beauty ! You are too 
proud to let any one know how much you fear me, 
how much unhappiness you owe to me; and for 
this long pretended indifi'ereiice to me, I owe you 
yet a revenge. I know your ambition, I have 
divined your thoughts. You believe that after 
to-morrow you will be free ; that you will be able 
io go away in triumph from the town that despises 
fou, and from me whom you hate. But to-morrow 
—who knows what it may bring about? For you 
must not forget that I owe you a revenge.’’ 

I had seen all that he had done, and I heard all 
that he had said, without the desire or the attempt 
to interfere or to reply; and perhaps it was 
that I was already in the condition of a reverie, 
and that in this condition the eye unconsciously 
seeks the object that another wishes it to seek, 
that I fixed my eyes steadfastly and persistently 


24 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


upon the burning, glittering gaze of Marcns. After 
this I haye no recollection at all of what followed. 
IWhen I awoke the moon was shining brightly, mak- 
ing it light as day in my room. Marcus had gone, 
and I was still sitting upon the low chair. The 
town clock struck twelve. I had slept live hours. 
What instinct made me go directly to the table 
where I had laid the copy of my essay ? With a 
curious feeling of relief I saw it there, in the moon- 
light, lavender ribboned, as I had left it. I felt 
singularly drowsy and heavy headed, as though 
my sleep on the chair had not been a refreshing 
one, and I threw myself on my bed — wretched 
though it was — with a sense of relief. 

It was late the next morning when I awoke j and 
I congratulated myself on having finished every 
preparation, that it was possible to make, the eveu- 
ing before; as I had only time to dress before the 
the bell rang, which was the signal for the calling 
together of the pupils to the Hall. 

The day was unusually fine, and everybody was 
there. The exercises proceeded without any annoy- 
ing interruption, and to the evident satisfaction of 
every one. The last class was called; the final 
examination was ended ; and throughout the entire 
day I had not failed once, nor had even made the 
faintest approach to a failure. It began to be 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


25 


whispered albout that at last there would he a pupil 
to take the scholarship. I felt sure that I was that 
pupil, and that eyery body knew I was. I felt it in 
the almost deference with which the teachers 
treated me; I saw it in the kindly and interested 
faces of the audience that turned from time to time 
significantly upon me; above all, I saw it in the 
expression of pleasure and content that beamed for 
me from the glances of the good Mr. Sinclair. All 
this, thd feeling of being somebody, of being treated 
as other fortunate and happy beings are treated ; as 
though I were worth being looked at, talked about, 
even smiled upon by those who had always despised 
me or pitied me — all this, was giving me a new and 
a delicious sense of living. How sweet it was — 
this first glimpse of happiness ! How glad the world 
without looked — ^the world that had always seemed 
so sad ! How like fathers and mothers, and sisters 
and brothers, the people around me seemed — ^the 
people that had always been so cruel ! 

I had heard all the essays read, and they were 
so much poorer than mine, that I felt there could be 
no question about the decision. The prize was as 
surely mine as though it were already in my keep- 
ing. And it was with a deep feeling of thankful 
ness, perhaps, too, of exultation, that I took my 
place amid a murniur of applause, and began to 


26 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


read distinctly, and in a well modulated voice, the 
first paragraph of my essay. Then I received a 
sudden shock — sl frightful shock. My head swain 
round; it was with difficulty I kept myself from 
falling. I must have been deadly pale. 

At once I realized what had happened. Some 
one — and there was but one whom I could suspect — 
had stolen the finished copy of my essay, and had 
left, in its place, the first, imperfect copy. The 
neat outside covering tied with lavender ribbons, 
was all that had been left to me of the pages upon 
which I had spent so much time in correcting and 
perfecting; while these — the pages I held in my 
hands, the pages from which I was expected to 
read — these were the crude, imperfect, and unsatis- 
factory result that always characterizes the first, 
hastily written expression of one’s thoughts. 

But I continued to read ; mechanically, and in the 
same tone, as though nothing had occurred, even 
while I was thinking of crying aloud to the people ; 
of telling them what a shameful, cruel thing had 
been done to me ; of trusting myself, in the agony 
and desperation of my outraged sense, to their 
generous appreciation of the situation. Ah ! If 
I had been like other daughters of other mothers, I 
might have done this ; I might have counted upon 
the kindly feeling of those about me. But in my 


THE DEVIL AND I. 27 

distress came the bitter consciousness — ^that bad 
in my brief liappy moments left me — that I was 
only the “Miser’s daughter;” that I had always 
been despised and derided; that no one would 
believe what I could only suspect ; that even if they 
should believe it, they would not admit it — knowing 
that without that admission my failure would be 
complete. For I knew that I should not be able to 
prove my suspicion, — that Marcus Pancho had stolen 
my essay — the suspicion I felt to be true; for if he 
had done me this evil, he had effectually done it ; in 
a way to leave no trace of having done it, and I 
should never be able to produce the missing essay. 

In the rapid traversing of these thoughts through 
my fevered brain, my tortured sense traversed a 
universe of suffering. Between me and the pages I 
was reading, the past of my life, with its painful 
scenes, presented itself ; the future, with its sicken- 
ing rehearsal of what had been, and its own dread- 
ful, unknown possibilities ; the present, the fright- 
ful present, with the faces of the audiened before 
me, surprised, amused, offended — all this, was 
spread out before me^ around me, like one huge, 
grotesque, horribly grotesque panorama. 

How I got through it I do not know. I must 
have led for the timd a dual existence. The self 
that read on, mechanically, deliberately, with an 
unconscious pride and detei'mination to make the 


28 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


best of it; the self that passed out and down 
through the file of frowning teachers and dis- 
appointed spectators ; the self that held out cour- 
ageously to the end — of that self I have only a 
vague consciousness. But of the self that saw 
everything, that heard everything, that suffered 
everything, of that self I was conscious, horribly 
conscious all the time. 

The prize was given to another, but not to one 
who had successfully passed the examination ; and 
the President expressed his regi’et, “ that the young 
lady whom they had hoped to benefit by the scholar- 
ship, had so poorly appreciated the advantages 
offered to her, as to have made no effort to obtain 
them.’’ And as he expressed himself thus, every 
eje turned upon me. This frightful allusion to that 
which was a calamity for me, this frightful misap- 
prehension of the truth, completed my misery. In- 
stinctively I turned, as if to seek in some face a 
pitying look — and my eyes rested only upon the 
mocking, smiling, diabolically smiling face of Mar- 
cus Pancho. It was more than a gleam of satisfac- 
tion that flashed from his burning gaze upon me — 
it was a revelation. I no longer felt that he had 
stolen my essay, I knew that he had stolen it. The 
day that was to have been for me a triumph, he had 
made of it a humiliating failure. This failure was 
his revenge. 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


29 


CHAPTER rv: 

I 

The memory of my experience through the follow- 
ing weeks, is in itself a dreaded nightmare. It 
was not alone the increased persecutions of Marcus,^ 
and the multiplied taunts of others grown more bold 
and unfeeling after my public humiliation — but it 
was a sore heartedness that knew no relief in its 
painfulness. It was the bitterness of a mighty dis- 
appointment ; the utter lack of consolation ; the sick- 
ening hopelessness of living itself. I had been so 
sure of my emancipation ; so sure of what I would 
do to prove myself worthy of the scholar shij) ,* so 
happy in thinking of what might happen of good to 
me — ^and all at once this surety and this happiness 
had been taken from me. I had no reason to hope, 
for I had no reason to believe that I should realize 
what I hoped for. 

So I thought then ; so others have thought at some 
time or other in their life. At these times we say, 
or we think, that nothing else than a miracle can 
change the situation. W ell, miracles are all the time 
taking place. Who of us can not remember some^ 
thing to have happened when he knew of no possi- 
ble chance of its happening? Who of us has not 


30 


I THE DEVIL AND I. . 


stood appalled and helpless before that which 
seemed the certain approach of a frightful catas- 
trophe — ^when suddenly he was lifted above it, and 
beyond it, by an intervention he could not possibly 
have foreseen, that no one could have foreseen? 
What are these but miracles — ^these events whose 
sudden coming, wholly unlooked for, wholly unpre- 
pared for, decide the destiny of a life ? And these 
miracles, what are they, but the perpetual witnesses 
of the universal vigilance, the universal guardian- 
ship of a Divine Father ? 

Whence have we the belief that “ the Lord helps 
him who helps himself,’’ if in the continual work- 
ing out of life’s problem, there ere not results that 
furnish us correctly this belief ? There is no doubt 
but that the earnest working, worthily aspiring, ever 
alert individual, who steadily pursues the deter- 
mination to be other than he is, and better than he 
is, arrives at the consummation of his desire more 
readily and more effectually than he, who also dis- 
satisfied with his condition, idly longs and idly w^aits 
for some force stronger than himself to bring about 
the wished for result. It is not that for the first 
named individual more and better opportunities 
occur: but that his present industry rewards him 
with a present fitness to take advantage pf these 
opportunities ; to lay hold of them, and to make the 


THE DEVIL AND L 


31 


best of them. It is simply that he has made him- 
self able to make use of the stepping-stones that a 
good Providence has furnished for the getting out 
of the slough of mediocrity. 

A miracle took place for me. An opportunity to 
end my i)resent state of unhappiness was unexpect- 
edly proff'ered to me. There were future possibil- 
ities again to hope for, again to live for. 

Looking into a shop window one morning, I saw 
an advertisement that interested me. It was the 
announcement, for the following evening, of a lect- 
ure to be given by a celebiuted woman. The subject 
of her lecture was “ Woman and her work.’^ I 
resolved to go; to hear for myself what this wise 
woman would say of woman and her woi'k. I went 
home, and took from my little bank fifty cents — ^all 
that it contained — the price of admission, and pur- 
chased my ticket. The next evening I was aanong 
the first to present myself at the door of the lecture- 
room, and I was shown to a seat near to, and directly 
in front of the distinguished lecturer. 

How little we know of ourselves and of the pro- 
vision a near f uture has made for us ! How could 
I have suspected, that from what I should hear 
that evening, the force would be furnished me 
to bring into useful and healthful action the 
mental resources that I possessed ? And yet, 


32 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


it is true, that the utterances which I felt the 
speaker believed to be profoundly true, had much 
to do in the re-enforcing of the courage, the patience, 
the self-reliance — of a sort of irrepressibleness, 
that has been the imominent characteristic of my 
nature, and which had I possessed only to a moder- 
ate degree, I should not to-day be living in a men- 
tal condition to tell the strange story of my 
life. 

At the close of the lecture, when the crowd had 
gone, and only a favored few lingered near the 
speaker, I approached her, and said in a timid voice 

^‘Please, Madame, will you write your name in 
my album?” My “album” was a homely one, of 
my own making. 

The lecturer gave me a kind, but curious look, 
and then — to the evident disgust of those about 
her, who looked disapprovingly at me — she took 
the book, and wrote in a plain bold hand, “The 
world belongs to those who take it.” Then adding 
her name, she gave the book back to me ; but see* 
ing that I still lingered, she said, placing her hand 
on mine, — 

“ What is it, my poor girl— what troubles 
you ? ” 

Her look of interest, the kindness of her voici^ 
the caressing touch of her hand— all this, made 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


33 


ine heedless of the presence of others who had 
always been unkind to me| and with tears in my 
eyes, and a passionate pleading in my yoice, I 
cried, — 

“Oh, dear lady, you have written in my book,' 
^The world belongs to those who take it.’ Please, 
please tell me how to take it ! ” 

“ Dear young heart ! ” she said, smiling, “ it would 
take me a long time to tell you how, as I under- 
stand it, to take the world. But come to me to-mor- 
row, and I will tell you what I mean by the words 
I have written in your album.” 

The hour that I i)assed with that wise and noble 
woman was one of the most helpful to me of my 
life. But it -was not alone the ideas themselves, 
expressed with a peculiar earnestness and posi- 
tiveness, that made so profound an impression upon 
me. It was also a sympathy with the speaker her- 
self ; a sympathy with the past of her life — whose 
history she confided to me — ^with its much labor 
and many discouragements, its bitter humiliations 
and disappointments, before she had arrived at 
her j)resent state of usefulness and distinction. 
And from this counsel and this confidence — ^this bap- 
tism of courage and hope — ^I went back to my com- 
fortless room with the resolution to quit it forever." 
How and when, I did not know. But had I not 


34 


THE DE\1L AND I. 


learned, that with the resolution and the will to 
bring about a wished for result, a way to do it would 
ultimately be found. Ah,” I cried, if only I could 
find my lost essay ! I might be able, even now, to 
prove myself worthy, if not of the practical assist^ 
ance of Mr. Sinclair, of, at least, his friendliness 
and his advice.” 

In the fixed belief that Marcus would not have 
taken my essay at all, without effectually doing away 
with it, I had no thought of the possibility of ever 
seeing it again. It was therefore with profound 
surprise, that one morning I heard the astounding 
announcement from Marcus, that he had not stolen 
my essay, but that I myself had hidden it; that 
I had hidden it the evening before Commencement ; 
that I had done it while I was asleep. Then as I 
looked at him in the scorn of my incredulity, he 
added, taking out his watch, and holding it before 
my gaze,— 

Ellinore, you see it is now almost eleven o’clock. 
I am going to prove to you the truth of what I liave 
stated, by declaring, that if you look steadily at 
this shining object you see in my hand, I will take 
you, without your knowing it, to the place where 
you have hidden your essay.” 

I recalled the fact of his having entered my room 
on the evening preceding the day that had been so 


'the devil and t. 


35 


fat-al for me. I recalled, too — that which I had not 
until that moment done — all that he had said and 
done, until the^ period of my falling asleep ; and of 
my awakening, hours after, and of my surprise that 
I had gone to sleep at so unusual an hour, and that 
my slumber had been of such long duration. I 
remembered the fact, that I thought was known only 
to myself, of my night walking and night working, 
in'short, that I was a somnambulist — and I felt sure 
that Marcus had in some way got possession of my 
secret. But all that I had ever done in my night 
working, had been only a continuation of what I 
had begun before going to sleep, or what I had in my 
mind the desire to do" ; and that I could have done 
anything so contrary to my will as to conceal my 
essay ; or that Marcus had anything to do with my 
falling asleep, and that while I was asleep he could 
take possession of my will to a degree to make me 
the doer of an evil to myself — all this, I did not for 
a moment believe : I did not then know enough of 
my malady to suspect it possible to believe. It was 
therefore only with the suddenly conceived idea to 
feign a belief in his words, to pretend a submission 
to his will, to appear to be asleep — in the faint hope 
that he would take me to where he himself luid hid- 
den the essay — that impelled me, without a dissent- 
ing word, to fix my gaze steadfastly and persistently 
upon the shining object he held in his hand. 


36 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


After this I remember nothing until I awoke. It 
was then half past twelve o’clock. I had been asleep 
an hour and a half. Marcus was standing directly 
in front of me. I had walked more than a mile, 
through an unfrequented road, to a thick wood ; I 
had seated myself upon a rock, and in my hands I 
was holding my lost essay. I had done all this with- 
out having the slightest recollection of it. I had 
not been conscious of anything during that one 
hour and a half. 

Was there a mingling of pleasure with the aston- 
ishment and terror with which I regarded my 
essay ? Perhaps so ; but it vanished at the sight 
of Marcus, who was looking at me with an express- 
sion of enjoyment that appalled me — the. fiendish 
enjoyment afibrded him by the discovery of a sover-' 
eign means of distressing me. He explained to me— 
with the jubilant manner of one about to enjoy a 
savory delectation — that the evening before exam- 
ination, when he had entered my room — as usual 
, without my consent — and had read over the cor- 
rected essay and the uncorrected one, it had been 
certainly with the idea of changing them if possible 
unnoticed by me, in the hope that, in my haste the 
next morning, I would discover the change too late 
to save me from great embarassment and trepida- 
tion; and that when he had uttered his ominous 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


37 


words to me that evening, looking at me in a manner 
that was meant to intimidate me, he had no idea 
then of the magnificent revenge that was even then 
making ready for him; and that it was while he 
was looking at me, that the continued fixedness of 
my gaze — that he had always been accustomed to 
see turn from him — the continued absence of move- 
ment, and the lack of expression in my face, sur- 
prised him ; that finally, upon examination, he found 
that I was asleep ; my eyes, however, remaining open 
and fastened upon the spot where his eyes had first 
attracted my gaze. It was then that he made the 
discovery so precious to him — ^that my sleep was 
hypnotic ; that I was in a passive condition, and 
subject to his will ; and that subsequently I did all 
that he willed me to do. That at his bidding I had 
changed the essays, removing the lavender ribboned 
cover from the finished pages, and placing within 
it the unfinished pages; and that following him, 
still at his command, to the woods where we 
then were, I had carefully and effectually hidden my 
essay in the hollow of a fallen tree — that he pointed 
out to me. He confided to me that his enjoyment on 
the day of my failure had net been complete until 
he saw that, notwithstanding the sudden pallor of 
my face, for which he alone knew the cause, — 
continued to read, with wonderful self-control, to 


38 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


the end, the unfortunate essay that assured my 
failure; and that the positive assurance that he 
possessed so extraordinary a means of revenge, 
had only been furnished him in this last proof — iii 

which I had come, without knowing it, and taken 
my lost essay from the place where I had uncon- 
sciously hidden it — which had convinced him, and 
me, too, he presumed, that he could produce upon 
me a hyjjnotic or somnambulistic condition, dur- 
ing which I was the slave of his will. 

While Marcus was delighting himself with this 
explanation, I was revolving in my mind the horri- 
ble advantage that he possessed in possessing the 
secret of my strange malady; an advantage that 
furnished him — ^the being that hated me, and that 
was happiest when he was persecuting me — ^with 
a T>ower whose dreaded possibilities made me shud- 
der with an instinctive feai* ; a power that I should 
not be able to resist nor to overcome. 

However, there is for us this merciful provision 
by nature ; that once fully persuaded an ill cannot 
be avoided, we find that we are already prepared, 
by an unconscious fortifying of ourselves, to sup- 
port it. Or, it may have been in my case, that the 
natural force of the will, the habitual persistency 
of purpose— the aforesaid irrepressibleness, that 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


39 


was so large a part of my character, and which all 
my life, with the exception of this last frightful 
epoch, that I believe to be the closing in of my 
earthly existence, has enabled me to push through 
a succession of gigantic obstacles, always with a 
sort of success — that enabled me then, at that time 
of alarming discovery, to cease troubling ovel’ 
expected ill fortune that might, through some 
happy intervention, never come. 

However this may be, as soon as Marcus had 
relieved me of his presence, I hastened to the home 
of Mi*. Sinclair. I had decided to tell him every- 
thing, in the hope that his sympathy would justify 
my asking him for the pecuniary aid necessary to 
enable me to leave the town, and to fit myself, by 
a year more of study, for the avocation I had 
chosen. Of course, I would accept this assistance 
only with the understanding to return it as soon as 
I should be able to do so. 

I was coldly received by Mr. Sinclair. The dis- 
appointment that my failure had brought him, had 
been all the greater because it was entirely unlooked 
for. He had not had, perhaps, more than others, 
great faith in my native goodness, but he had had 
an immense dependence upon my ability and my 
ambition. It had been told me that he had 
expressed himself thus ; so that it was without an 


40 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


encouraging word or look from the one being that 
had been my friend, that I told the strange story 
of my lost essay. I would not have told it to 
another than to him ; I could not have hoped nor 
expected any one else to believe it. Neither did 
Mr. Sinclair believe it. I saw at once that he looked 
upon the story as another development of the 

natural depravity’’ credited to me. Marcus, of 
course, would have been glad to have the privilege 
of denying all knowledge of the facts he had proved 
to me. There was only my statement to be 
depended upon, and I was an outcast — was “ the 
miser’s daughter.” 

Never in my whole life had the injustice of the 
cruel prejudices, the unfeeling taunts of social 
superiors, the insults of those who were mentally 
and morally my inferiors — the life long persecu- 
tions of which I had been the victim — never had 
these so agonizingly impressed me, as they arrayed 
themslves before me thenj never had the sense of 
the misfortune of being what I was, and the hope- 
lessness of trying to be other than I was, taken 
possession of me in so distressing a manner; and 
no effort of my pride could prevent the expression 
of my pain in sobs, convulsive, heart-breaking sobs 
that would have touched the heart of any pitying 
being, and that certainly touched the heart of Mr. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


41 


Sinclair, To avoid looking at me, ’and perhaps to 
relieve his own agitation, he took up the much 
abused essay, and turning over the leaves, he read 
carelessly here and there ; when all at once, becom- 
ing interested, he turned back to the beginning and 
read slowly, attentively, and, by the expression on 
his face, I was sure delightedly, to the end. 

^‘What a pity, my child, he said, when he had 
finished the reading, ^‘that you did not take the 
trouble to write an essay like this for Commence- 
ment day ! This is what I expected of you ! Same 
subject, too,’’ he added, pointing to the title of my 
essay. 

Then he still did not believe that I had written 
the essay for Commencement ! Instead, it was prob- 
able that he believed, as others believed, that caprice 
and obstinacy, or a certain enjoyment — that was 
the result of a moral defect — ^at the thought of 
deserving the bad opinion of others, had prompted 
me to deliberately, to the surprise of every one, 
to offer an essay of which the ideas were so imper- 
fectly and incoherently expressed. My silence, my 
apparent indifference, my seeming stoicism at the 
time of my failure, and after it, had rendered my 
misfortune of that day liable to this uncharitable 
construction; and I felt the imprudence of trying 
to persuade Mr. Sinclair of the truth. What did 


42 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


it matter — now that I was again happy? My one 
friend had again faith in my ability, he had again 
faith in my ambition. He confided to me that he 
had always had a certain pride in thinking of my 
sure success, and that he had wished to give him- 
self the pleasure of helping me to that success ; 
that he believed that I would not again disappoint 
him, when he had made known to me what was his 
intention to do. 

From the despair that hoped for nothing, to the 
gladness that hoped for everything — ^this was the 
miracle that the goodness of Mr. Sinclair wrought 
for me. It was all arranged before I left my bene- 
factor that afternoon. I was to go away the follow- 
ing month. Mr. Sinclair was to defray all the ex- 
penses, required to fit me for a teacher of elocution — 
for that was what I decided to be — which favor I 
was to remit as soon as I should be able, without 
embarrassing myself, to do so. 

When it was known that I was going away, the 
boys and girls of the town were more unkind than 
ever to me, and my mother was more cruel. She 
made the preparations for my departure as difficult 
as possible. Marcus was a mysteiy to me. To 
my surprise he ceased his persecutions; but his 
attentions, which he offered me instead, were more 
painful to me than his persecutions had been. The 
day before my departure, he said,— 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


43 


‘^EUinore, you are very glad that you are going 
away from this town ; but more glad that you are 
going away from me/^ 

Yes,” I replied, I hope we shall never see each 
other again.” 

Ah ! but we will, Ellinore, we will see each 
other again I I shall not leave you long, wherever 
you may be, without a sight of me ; you would be 
too happy.” Then after regarding me curiously, 
he added : Ellinore, I am rich, I am handsome, 
I am intelligent. Others seem to like me, why have 
you never liked me ? ” 

“ You ! ” I cried, looking at him in amazement. 

You ask me why I have never liked you ! You, 
who have tortured me all your life, because you 
have hated me all your life ! ” 

^^No !” he replied, with a strange passion in his 
voice, “You have always been mistaken — and I 
must not tell you why. But, in spite of my perse- 
cution of you, it is you that have hated me ; while 
I both love and hate you. Yes, I knew that would 
astonish you, but it is the truth. Away from you, 
I have an uncontrollable desire to see you, to be 
near you, to be good to you ; that is why I am always 
intruding myself upon you. But your pride, your 
dislike, which I feel without your looking at me,’ 
without your spealdng to me, your pretended indif- 


44 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


ference to my existence, gives me also, the moment 
I am in your presence, the uncontrollable desire to 
torment you. I must be something to you, Elli- 
nore ! I have sworn that you shall, if you will, owe 
to me henceforth the enjoyment of your life ; if you 
will not, then you shall owe to me the suffering of 
it. You will henceforth either brighten my destiny 
by your friendliness and affection, or I wiU shadow 
yours by the darkness of my revenge ” 

I had no reply to this. I was thinking that if 
what he had said were true, that his love for me 
would be as terrible as his hate ; that for him to 
love was synonymous with to have — ^to have with 
the intention to divert himself, to enjoy himself in 
the use and the abuse of his possession ; and that 
failing to possess, the passion of his soul to hate, 
would furnish him with an ingenuity to torture the 
object he coveted, to a degree inconceivable to the 
individual endowed with the heart and the soul of a 
man. For what is the being who is totally devoid 
of that w^hich is God’s gift to man — that spirit 
which prompts him to be a blessing and a joy to an 
object beloved, whether it be his own or another’s ? 
What is the being that has nothing of the hero in 
him, nothing of the manliness that enables him to 
bear in silence the pain of a defeat which, had it 
been a triumph for him, would have insured the 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


45 


unhappiness of another ? What is the being who 
hates with a deadly hatred, who pursues, with a 
deadly intent to torture, to destroy the object that 
frankly refuses to be his? What is this being 
with no kindness in his heart, with no pity in his 
soul, with no heaven-born instinct in him ? He is 
not a man — he is a devil. 

Did Marcus divine the nature of my thoughts? 
Perhaps so, for he too remained silent,* and this 
was pur parting adieu. 


46 


THE DEVIL AND L 


CHAPTER V: 

At last I was free. At last I was quitting^ it 
might be only for years ” I hoped it would be for- 
ever,” the scenes that recalled, each one, an odious 
or a painful memory. I had the good Mr. Sinclair's 
blessing and encouraging last look to remember ; I 
had a neat little wardrobe provided by the generos- 
ity of my benefactor; I had enough of money for 
piy immediate wants, and my ticket, a small basket 
of lunch, and a letter of introduction also from Mr. 
Sinclair, to the Principal of one of the schools in 
New York; with these, all the possessions in the 
whole world that I could call my own, I, Ellinore, 
^Hhe miser’s daughter,” was hurrying away as fast 
as the hurrying train could take me. And, as it 
should be to healthful youth, the unhappy past was 
forgotten in the content of the present. For the 
future everything might happen for me of good — 
and perhaps of bad ; but I thought only of the good. 

The Principal, to whom I gave the letter of intro- 
duction, and by whom I was kindly received, had 
charge of one of the leading schools in New York. 
As I wished to prepare myself for a teacher of elo- 
cution, I devoted the greater part of my time to 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


47 


this particular study; and I was so ambitious, so 
thoroughly in earnest, that at the end of a year I 
attraeted the attention of the Principal, who, satis- 
fied with my proficiency, made me an assistant 
teacher in the school. From that time my success 
as a teacher was so universally acknowledged, that 
at the close of another year, I decided to take charge 
of a private school, of which I was the founder as 
well as the Principal. I was still more successful in 
this effort than in any preceding one ; and, as hereto- 
fore, my success was largely due to the personal 
influence I possessed over my pupils. It was more 
than a teacher’s authority, that compelled their 
respect ; it was a personal influence, that won their 
love. 

My pupils were daughters from the select fami- 
lies of the city. It became the fashion to patronize 
me. In a practical way, this patronage brought me 
a small fortune ; in a social way, it brought me stOl 
more — the satisfaction of seeing myself thoroughly 
appreciated for what I did, and of feeling myself 
heartily loved for what I was. Pushed still further 
to the front in my efforts and my ambition, by this 
all-powerful social phalanx, I gave “ special read- 
ings,” which resulted in the same astonishing suc- 
cess. I recited well ; and no entertainment, that 
, would admit of recitation, at the homes of these ele- 


48 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


gant and finely sensuous people, was quite satisfac- 
tory, so I was assured, without me. 

Could any future, for me, that I might have 
dreamed of in the past, have been more replete with 
usefulness and with happiness, than was the pres- 
ent ? Could I have hoped for a more pleasing com- 
pensation for the painfulness and the friendlessness 
of my preceding life? I was not only ^^on the 
height,’’ but I was walking securely and tranquilly 
there. And from this security and this tranquility 
my fall was soon to be an unexpected and an effect- 
ual one. 

Among my pupils was one who attached herself 
to me with an ardor and a persistency that won ati 
first my affection, and afterwards my personal 
interest to an extraordinary degree. Mabel Living- 
ston was the only representative of one of the 
wealthiest families in New York. The father and 
mother of Mabel were both remarkably handsome, 
while Mabel herself was quite the contrary. This 
homeliness, which she designated as her “ heritage,’^ 
while the parents enjoyed a wealth of personal 
attractions, was for Mabel a great misfortune. She 
never seemed to think of it as it was, a freak of 
nature, but as a misfortune for which her parents 
were accountable; a malicious donation she owed 
only to them. This strange hallucination embit- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


49 


t 


tered every enjoyment of her own, as well as mnch 
of the enjoyment of her estimable father and 
mother ; who, if it had been possible, would gladly 
have transmitted to her the beauty of face and form 
which they possessed, in the hope of bestowing also 
upon her the graces of an amiable disposition. 

For all those whom she knew — except her parents 
— ^who possessed the charm of a handsome face, 
'Mabel conceived a passionate liking. But there 
was always present with this liking, the bitterness 
of the regret that she also did not possess this 
charm, and the uncontrollable envy of it. There- 
fore, one can readily comprehend that her friend- 
ship, if desirable to possess, was also dangerous to 
possess ; that while it might be a good to enjoy, it 
was possible to be an evil to dread. This conclu- 
sion, ultimately arrived at by each one of her com- 
panions, left her — as much as her lofty social posh' 
tion would permit — a stranger to any sincere expres: 
sion of friendship towards her on their part. 

Mrs. Livingston, who was deeply pained by the 
f!act that her daughter was regarded in so unfortu- 
nate a manner — the knowledge of which she had 
extracted, imperceptibly to them, from the parents 
of Mabel’s companions, as well as from Mabel her^ 
self ; and who became discouraged by the continual 
failure of her own and her husband’s efforts to 


50 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


render their daughter happy, was intensely gratified 
to observe the sudden and sincere affection of her 
unfortunate child for one who returned that affec- 
tion, and whose influence she believed would have 
the happiest effect upon Mabel. The poor woman 
was perhaps also delighted to be able conscien- 
tiously to shoulder the responsibility and the diffi- 
culty of correcting the unwholesome predilections 
of this strange young being, upon one who was so 
universally believed to be as worthy and competent 
as I was believed to be. And as to myself, it was 
perhaps an unconscious pride in every fresh evi- 
dence of the confidence and esJeem of others — the 
confidence and esteem I had been so bare of in my 
suffering days; perhaps it was the ambition to 
accomplish for this girl what no one else had been 
able to accomplish ; perhaps it was the natural 
result of my sincere affection for her ; an affection 
to which her friendlessness among friends, and her 
unhappy disposition, made the strongest appeal 
—for I could not avoid the suggestion that she 
might be misunderstood, as I had been, and thus 
unconsciously abused, as I had been — perhaps it was 
for one of these reasons, or for all of them, that I 
accepted willingly, gladly, the labor and responsi- 
bility left unreservedly to me. However, be this as 
it may, I gradually became, with the grateful sane- 


THE DEVIL AND L 


51 


tion of both Mr. and Mrs. Livingston, not only the 
instructress of Mabel, but her sole guardian, and 
almost her sole companion. 

This period, then, of my history, was a useful and 
enjoyable one. I worked industriously and happily 
under the agreeable stimulant of the ever increasing 
esteem and appreciation of those who patronized 
{me. Mabel’s affection for me grew with her steadily 
growing improvement in temper and behavior ; and 
her parents began to picture a future when they 
should be able to rejoice in the possession of so 
gracious and worthy a daughter. This gratitude, 
that I felt to be sincere, added to my own sense of 
the happy change I had brought about, was an ample 
compensation for the efforts I had made in the 
education of the heart, as well as the mind of Mabel. 

My position was an enviable one. Every advan- 
tage that the money and influence of Mr. and ^Irs. 
Livingston enabled them to furnish their daughter, 
for her improvement and amusement, was furnished 
also to me. Whatever I considered suitable for 
myself to see and to hear, was considered suitable, 
under my guardianship, for Mabel to see and to 
hear. I was keenly sensitive to the responsibility 
so wholly conflded to me, and, until the occurrence of 
what I am about to relate, I had no reason to accuse 
imyself for the smallest failure in this responsibility. 


52 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


It was nearly four years since I had left the town 
that I hated, and in which stiU lived my mother ; and 
with the exception of the good Mr. Sinclair — whose 
timely assistance I had returned in the first days 
of my success, and from whom I received an occa- 
sional letter — I knew nothing of the existence of any 
one in my native town. Marcus, I knew had gone 
away about the time of my departure, and hearing 
nothing from him, or of him in all these years, I 
thought I had reason to believe that his last threat- 
ening words at our parting were meaningless; or 
better still, that, in the possible growing manliness 
of his growing years, he had repented of them. 

In my new life no one knew anything of my past. 
I never spoke of it, and no one questioned me in 
regard to it. Perhaps it was owing to my persistent 
silence in regard to all that concerned myself, that 
the delicacy — ^which is a part of the high-bred ele- 
ment that surrounded me — of those who knew me, 
prevented all questioning, and even the appearance 
of curiosity. It is true that I shrank from the dis- 
covery of ithe unjust treatment of myself in the 
past, as much as I shi’ank from the discovery of my 
unfortunate birth. Not that I was ashamed of this 
treatment — that was so undeserved — as I was 
ashamed of my birth, — which also was no fault of 
mine ; but that I dreaded any possible return of all 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


53 


that I had suffered, in the discovery of the one, 
which might bring about the discovery .of the other. 
And as with every year the probability of this dis- 
covery grew less, my desire to prevent it increased. 

One afternoon we were looking, Mabel and I, at 
a choice collection of paintings, which had been 
for several days on special exhibition, when my 
attention was arrested by a hurried whisper from! 
Mabel, — 

Nellie ! — I was always Nellie to her — a man 
has been watching you for the last five minutes, 
and in a way that I think he must know you. I 
hope he does, for I never saw so handsome a man. 
Oh, I am sure he knows you I Look, Nellie, he is 
coming towards us ! And following her gaze of 
ecstatic admiration, my eyes looked upon the face 
of Marcus Pancho. Simultaneously with imy look 
of astonishment, he approached me, and reaching 
out his hand, said in a low, musical voice — 

“Ah, EUinore, friend and comrade of my early 
days, I have found you at last ! Nay, do not look so 
indignant, for I have come to ask your forgiveness 
for my boyish, bad treatment of you. The years 
since we parted have made a man of me, and while 
they have brought me real sorrow and regret for 
the pain I caused you, they have also taught me to 
appreciate a nature like yours. Forgive me, EUb 
^ori, I implore you, and let us be friends ! 


54 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


What was I to do? Moments like these are 
singularly embarrassing. One shrinks from being 
the occasion of a scene. Mabel and I were not 
alone. There were groups of others there, some of 
whom I knew, and they were already attracted by 
the handsome face and fascinating manner of Mar- 
cus. What if he had, indeed, repented of his bad 
treatment of me — ^as he declared he had, and as I had 
hoped, from the long period of repose he had per- 
mitted me, that he had done ! There was an air of 
frankness and sincerity in his words and manner, 
that would have left no doubt in the mind of any 
one but me, of the genuineness of his good inten- 
tions. Or, what if he had not changed, and that it 
was still as he had declared to me — four years ago 
at our parting — it had always been; that he both 
loved and hated me — ^loved me because I was pleas- 
ing to him, hated me because I refused to be pleased 
by him. In any case, should I persist in my first 
impulse of indignation, and refuse the forgiveness 
he so earnestly and humbly demanded, would not 
the humiliation to him of this refusal, incite in him 
a new vindictiveness, and a new desire for revenge ? 
For notwithstanding the apparent transformation, 
and my hope that he had changed, I had an instinct- 
ive mistrust of the man ; and I could not forget the 
peculiar nature of his revenge in the past, nor the 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


55 


fulness of the suffering it had brought to me. 

TVoukl it not be better/^ I thought, to show him 
friendliness, so long as he seems to be a friend ? ’’ 

But in such moments thought must be rapid, 
touching, as with a flash, all that I have expressed ; 
and while one is thinking one thing, one is often 
saying and doing, from impulse or from habit, 
another. And while I was trying to decide in my 
mind what I should do, what was best to do, I had 
introduced Marcus and Mabel to each other ; I had 
left the Art-room ; I had walked up the Avenue 
arm and arm with Mabel ; I was standing at the 
stately entrance of the home of her parents — and 
Marcus Pancho was still with us. 

Miss Ellinore alwmys stays with me to dine, after 
our afternoon. Mamma wishes her to do so. You 
imust come too, Mr. Pancho, this evening. I shall 
tell mamma that I have invited you, and she will be 
pleased, I am sure, to know one who has always 
known Miss Ellinore. Remember, we shall expect 
you;’’ she added, as Marcus parted from us. 

Mabel had said this abruptly, and, as a result of 
my apparently restored amicableness towards him, 
I could not then express my disapproval of this 
unexpected courtesy on the i^art of Mabel, which I 
was certain was not wholly due to my supposed 
intimacy with Marcus, but largely to her own sing-, 


56 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Tilar interest in him, whose fascination of face and 
of manner had already its effect upon her. 

Marcus succeeded in pleasing, to an extraordinary 
degree, both Mr. and Mrs. Livingston ; so that 
Mabel’s invitation was followed by another from 
her mother, which was the beginning of a series of 
attentions that were received by the clever Marcus, 
it must be admitted, in the most admirable manner. 
His respect for the somewhat dogmatic opinions of 
Mr. Livingston, his deference for that which he 
pretended to consider the intellectual and moral 
sovereignty of the man, but which some others more 
correctly designated as individual aristocracy and 
individual monopoly; this respect and this defer- 
ence, were most pleasing to Mr. Livingston. The 
courtesy of Marcus towards Mrs. Livingston was 
devotion. He made himself necessary to her, by 
creating from new services new demands ; in short, 
he had, by his clever management, become an indis- 
pensable accessory to the home and the social life 
of Mr. and Mrs. Livingston. Above all, his man- 
ner to Mabel won the favor of the parents. In her 
presence he observed, to an extraordinary degree, 
that carefulness of decorum in his utterances and 
his movements, that is proper to observe in the 
presence of a maiden young in years and experience. 
To all appearances there was nothing in his conduct 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


57 


either of familiarity or of coquetry. Towards me 
he maintained that frank but respectful cordiality; 
that had characterized the first sudden announce- 
ment of himself at the Art-gallery; a cordiality 
which a long established friendship — ^as ours was 
supposed to be — would justify. He made no allu- 
sion to the past that was at all significant or embar- 
rassing. He had no opportunity of seeing me alone 
at the Livingston^s, and he did not imply, in any 
way, that he desired the opportunity — ^as he had 
never called upon me when I was at my own, and 
not Mabel’s home. For the rest, it was understood 
that his stay in New York was limited. It was 
already toward the end of the season, and he had 
announced his intention of going to Europe at its 
close. The situation was more satisfactory to me 
than I could have thought it possible — considering 
our former hostile relations — to be; and notwith- 
standing a personal dislike of the man, that I could 
not conquer, and that I believed to conceal so well 
that Marcus could not suspect its existence, as he 
in no way betrayed that he did — notwithstanding 
this dislike, and an instinctive fear that never 
wholly left me, I persuaded myself to believe that 
since I had known him as a boy, there had been in 
him, as a man, a radical and a wholesome change* 
And nothing could excel the seeming delicacy and 


58 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


thoughtfulness of his manner towards me in his 
efforts to bring about this persuasion. 

This satisfactory routine of my life was unex-J 
pectedly brought to an end. The sudden depart- 
ure of Mr. and M'rs. Livingston for a neighboring 
city, at the demand of a dying kinsman, and their 
prolonged absence, brought about, or precipitated, 
(results that were as extraordinary in their arrange- 
jment as they were painfully disastrous in their 
effect. Mabel had never been left to the care of the 
housekeeper and servants. In leaving their home, 
her parents had always permitted her to accompany 
them. This time it was decided that she should 
remain with me ; and that during the absence of Mr. 
and Mrs. Livingston, Mabel’s home was to be my 
home, and I was expected to add to my own habit- 
ual care and solicitude of Mabel, that of both the 
parents. Since then I have many times recalled the 
fact — that I persuaded myself then to be a curious 
fancy — that when, as a parting word, Mrs. Living- 
ston expressed her regret at leaving Mabel at home, 
the naturally pale face of Mabel flushed with a sud- 
den emotion, and a curious flame, half of contempt, 
h^f of triumph, burned in the depths of her usually 
lustreless eyes. 

It had been my habit, at the urgent request of 
Mrs. Livingston, every day, after the last recitation. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


59 


to accompany Mabel to her home before going to 
iny own, that I might be sure of her safe return, 
and that I might inform inyself of the arrangement, 
if any, that Mrs. Livingston had made for the rest 
of the afternoon, or for the evening, in which I was 
expected, with Mabel, to take part. During the 
absence of Mr. and Mrs. Livingston, I had as usual 
accompanied Mabel to her home before going to my 
own ; returning, however, to dine with her, and to 
pass the night at her house. So that I was away 
from Mabel only about two hours of each day, dur- 
ing which time I supposed her quietly awaiting me 
at her home, as I always found her there to receive 
me. 

A week passed without the occurrence of any- 
thing unusual. On Tuesday afternoon of the sec- 
ond week — ^at the close of which My. and Mrs. Liv-. 
ingston were expected to return — ^while I was bus^ 
ily occupied in my room — ^that was used as a sitting- 
room of my apartment — was surprised when the 
servant announced that Mabel wished to see me. 

Nellie,’’ she said, “ don’t send me away— let me 
stay with you ; I know you like to be alone at this 
hour, but I will not disturb you. See how quiet I 
can be !’! slie added, seating herself upon an easy 
chair, and closing her eyes. 

« Of course you may stay with me', dear, and you 


GO 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


do not disturb me in the least; besides, I have 
nothing important to do,^’ I answered, crowding my- 
self into the chair beside her, and putting my arms 
about her. Then noticing her flushed cheek and 
nervous manner, I added, “You might have come 
with me every day. You shall not be left alone 
again.” 

“I hope not:” she replied, with an intensity of 
tone that made me feel as if I had neglected her. 
Her manner, however, was more than ordinarily 
affectionate, and she assured me, with what seemed 
to me a singular earnestness of manner, of her, 
strong attachment to me, and of her confidence in 
me and in my affection for her. Then, after sitting 
quite still for a few minutes, she said abruptly, — 

“ Nellie, if I were going away, going away never 
to return, I should only feel sad to leave you, and 
no one else — for my parents, I am sure, would be 
happier without me.” 

“ Mabel ! ” I exclaimed, shocked at the bitterness 
r of the feeling wuth which she regarded her parents. 
“ You do not know what you are saying ! You are 
not well — you do not look well, and I only wish 
your father and mother were here now ! Oh, 
Mabel, how I wish you could understand your 
parents — how much they love you, how much they 
would be willing to do to make you happy ! ” 


TKE DEVIL AND I. 


61 


Mabel was about to reply, when hearing the door 
bell ring, and rapid foot steps ascending the stairs, 
we waited the announcement of whoever it might 
be ; when there was a vigorous rap at my door, 
followed by the immediate opening of it, and, to my 
great astonishment, the entrance of Marcus Pancho 
unaccompanied by the servant. 

I had not seen Marcus since the departure of Mr. 
and ]Mrs. Livingston. His sense of decorum had 
kept him — ^as I naturally supposed — ^from the home 
of Mabel during their absence j and I did not expect 
to see him till after their return. I had given 
Mary — my one seiwant, who did everything for me 
— ^the strictest orders never to permit any one to 
enter my apartment unannounced ; and on seeing 
Marcus thus suddenly and unexpectedly before me, 
with a look upon his face that brought back all my 
dislike and. mistrust of him, and seeing myself 
again subjected to an intrusion the like of which 
had been so odious to me in the old days, I had but 
one feeling — ^that of indignant resentment against 
the outrage I was no longer obliged to support ; and 
without speaking to Marcus, but with an exclama- 
tion of disapproval, I was about to ring for Mary, 
in -order to reprimand her disregard of my orders, 
when anticipating my movements towards the bell, 
he said, in a suave voice, and bowing politely,— 


.62 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Permit me, Ellinore ! 

It was half past three — the clock had just struck 
the half hour — when Marcus thus politely offering 
his services to summon Mary, stood bowing, smil- 
ing, and triumphant before me. After that, what 
happened there and elsewhere, I can recount only as 
it was made known to me in the subsequent events 
that followed hours of an unconscious existence. 
What I next remember, and what I have had reason 
to remember all my life, is, that at eleven o’clock 
that night, I was aroused, as if from a deep sleep, 
by the sudden appearance of a bright light in my 
room, and of what seemed — in my frightened and 
bewildered condition — ^an apparition, but which was 
really Mr, Livingston. 

‘‘ Pardon me. Miss EUinore ! ” he said hurriedly 
and with some embarrassment, as he saw me sud- 
denly rise up from the chair on which I had been 
sitting. “ I did not expect to find you already here, 
as there was no light in your room, and the servant 
assured me that you had not returned ; so I entered 
without announcing myself, thinking to await your 
return. But I see you have been asleep, and I do 
not wonder that you are frightened at seeing me so 
unexpectedly and at this late hour. I can not under- 
stand why Mabel did not receive my telegram, 
informing her of our intended arrival tomight.’’ 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


G3 

Telegram ! ’’ I echoed, still looking at him in a 
dazed way. 

Yes, I sent a telegram, which you did not get ; 
that accounts for your astonishment. Imagine Mrs. 
Livingston’s and my surprise, to find no one at the 
railway station to meet us ; and arriving at the house 
to find that you and Mabel were not there to receive 
us; and that our return was entirely unexpected. 
Mabel’s maid informed us that her mistress had 
gone out in the afternoon, and that she had returned 
later, in great haste, with you and Mr. Pancho, for 
a dress and some other articles, that Mabel said 
were required for a dramatic entertainment that 
was to take place in the evening ; and that the car- 
riage was not to be sent for her, as she would stay 
with you, at your apartment, to-night. But Mrs. 
Livingston insisted that I should come here and 
await your arrival, and take you both back to our 
house to enjoy the surprise of our return.” Then 
glancing through a long vista of rooms, at the ex- 
treme end of which, through half drawn curtains, he 
caught the glimpse of the white drapery of a bed, 
he added, But I see you have been prudent enough 
to come home early ; and as Mabel is asleep, I wiH 
only awaken her to kiss her, and to tell her that we 
will send for her in the morning.” 

With a violent effort I aroused myself as from the 


64 THE DEVIL AND I. 

influence of a horrible nightmare ; but it seelmed to 
me that I was still dreaming, when I uttered in a 
broken, bewildered way, — 

Mabel ! — Mabel ! — where is Mabel ? I — do not 
know what you mean, Mr. Livingston ! I — do not 
understand what you have been saying ! Why have 
I been asleep ? Why — ^why is it night ? Why, — 

Mr. Livingston was beyond the reach of my voice. 
At the first mysterious words I had uttered, his 
face took an expression of terror ; and before I had 
finished, he was hurrying wildly through the rooms 
to the bed whereon he had supposed Mabel to be 
asleep. Then, after a minute of frantic reaching 
after, and plaintive calling of J^Iabel ! Mabel ! 
with a loud cry he returned, and taking my arm in a 
cruel grasp, said in a hoarse voice, — 

Where is Mabel? Where is my daughter? 
What has happened?’^ Then as if seized with a 
sudden idea — “ You have all deceived me ! You 
have all lied to me ! Mabel is ill — she is ill with 
some frightful disease ! But you dare not keep the 
truth from me ! Quick — ^tell me where you have 
hidden my daughter ! 

The vehemence, the suffering of the man, had 
to a degree aroused me. I began to realize that I 
must answer something; and with this realization 
came my recollection of what had occurred that 


THE DEVIL AND I. ^ 65 

afternoon until the moment I had ceased to remem- 
ber anything. 

Oh yes, Mr. Livingston, I remember now ; Mabel 
was here this afternoon — ^here in this room. We 
were sitting together in this chair. I remember that 
Mabel was nervous and feverish, and that while we 
were talking, Marcus Pancho came in. I was 
angry that he came unannounced, and was going 
to ring the bell for Mary; and — ^and — do not 
remember anything else. It was afternoon then 
— and now it is night. I was going back with Mabel 
to her house — ^and you say that I went ; but I can- 
not remember going, and — ^I am still here, you see ; 
I do not remember to have seen ^Marcus Pancho 
leave this room — nor Mabel. And yet they must 
have gone away — for — for — they are not here. Mr. 
Livingston, I do not know what has happened to 
me; but I think, that without knowing it, I must 
have slept; for the sudden blaze of light, and the 
sight of you, terrified me.^’ 

There is some dreadful mystery about all this ! 
said Mr. Livingston, now white and trembling with 
terror and excitement. Could you have been drug- 
ged, and Mabel and Marcus decoyed to some dread- 
ful place, and Mabel's maid bribed to deceive us by 
falsehoods ? No other servant saw you enter the 
house in the afternoon— you and Mabel, and Mr. 


66 


THE DEVIL AND T. 


Pancho, But I haye already lost too much time. 
The first thing to do is to send the detectives in 
search of Mahel and Marcus.’’ And seizing his hat 
he was about to disappear, when turning suddenly, 
he exclaimed, — 

But your servant, the one who came up with me 
to your room — ^she must know something that will 
enlighten us ! Let us hear what she has to say ! ” 
“Yes,” I answered, still dreamily, ^‘it is as you 
say; Mary must know something.” (It did not 
seem to occur to me that I should have thought of 
that before.) “ She must be in bed, but I will waken 
her.” And as I was about to leave the room with 
this intention, the door, that had been slightly open, 
opened wide, and ^lary herself entered, betraying 
the fact that she had been a silent and unnoticed 
witness of all that had occurred between Mr. Liv- 
ingston and myself ; for without waiting to be inter- 
viewed, and looking suspiciously at Mr. Livingston, 
she said, in a curiously defiant tone,— 

Ye needn’t be thinkin’ as ye’ll hear anythin’ from 
me ! I knows nothin’ what’s not my business. I 
knows what Miss Illinore ’as told ye — ^’ow the young 
lady what’s called Mabel was ’ere, and that a young 
gintleman was ’ere too. I niyer watches folks 
as goes hout and hin uv the ’ouse. I reckoned 
Miss Illinore was at the young lady’s ’ouse, like 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


67 


she was other nights. I didn’t see her cornin’ 
hack. It was as ’ow I told ye, sir — ^there was no 
light in her room, and I didn’t know she was ’ere. 
That’s hall I knows.” 

While Mary was speaking, a dreadful suspicion 
had rapidly taken possession of me, that — ^while 
I sought for reasons to prove the foUy of conceiv; 
ing it — ^an instinctive wisdom forced me to believe 
true. It was a terrible fear that had aroused me, 
but I was wide awake now, and I was fully impressed 
with the necessity of inmiediate action. And seiz- 
ing Mr. Livingston by the arm — while he was vainly 
trying to extract some definite information from 
Mai'y, and i3ointing to the door, I cried in a strangely 
excited and imperious tone, — 

Go I Mr. Livingston — ^go at once, and set the 
detectives to work ! It may be even now too late ! 
Do not waste time to return to me till something 
definite has been learned; for I declare to you that 
I have told you already all I know, and that I do not 
know, more than you, where ]Mabel is; but I am 
sure that the only way to know, is to find Marcus 
Pancho ! ” 

The sudden earnestness of my words and man- 
ner, joined to his own conclusion that something 
must be done at once, precipitated Mr. Livingston’s 
exit without another word. As soon as we were 


08 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


alone, Mary locked the door, and coming close to 
me, with a mingled expression of curiosity, admir- 
ation, and amazement upon her face, she said, — 

^VMiss Illinore, would ye be afther a lavin’ me 
say a bit o’ me mind ? ” 

I was only too anxious to encourage any famil- 
iarity, or even impertinence on the part of Mary, 
that might induce her to confide to me all that I 
suspected she knew of the mysterious affair — all 
that she had adi’oitly refused to tell Mr. Livingston 
— and I graciously gave her the required permis- 
sion, whereupon she proceeded, in a cautious tone, 
to give me a bit o’ her mind.” 

Well, Miss, ye’s into hit, and ’ow’s ye to get hout 
— ^that’s what I’d like to know?” 

Then seeing that I looked inquiringly at her, she 
continued, — 

Hit’s ye that w^ould be makin’ a diver acthress. 
Miss Illinore — what wid yer pretendin’ to be aslape, 
and yer starin’ at the ould gintleman kind o’ dazed 
like, while he was a-grabbin’ ye, and yer not spakiii’, 
as hif ye was dumb, and then hall at once to waken 
hup, as hif ye ’ad just found hout what ’ad ’appen- 
ed, and yer clutchin’ o’ the ould gintleman, 
and yer pintin’ to the door, and yer spakin’ has 
they spakes at the thaietre— ‘ Go ! go Misther 
Livingston!’ I tells ye. Miss, hit w^as has diver 
a bit o’ playin’ has iver ye sees hon the stage.’’ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


69 


Mary, although of Irish parentage, had been born 
and brought up in England; so that her language 
was a curious mixture of Irish brogue and execrable 
English; and this peculiarity of speech, accom- 
panied, as it was, by a grotesque imitation of every 
gesture and expression described by her, was so 
ludicrous, that had I not been so gravely concerned, 
it would have afforded me immense enjoyment; as 
it was, I said simply, — 

What do you mean Mary ? 

Oh, Miss Illinore ! ( this time with an air of 
reproach,) “do ye thinks has I wasn’t a-knowin’ 
the manin’ huv it hall — ^has ’ow ye was a-hactin’ 
to keep the ould gintleman ’ere until the young 
couple, what was eloped, ’ad got far enough hoff, 
and then when ye was a-knowin’ ye couldn’t keep 
him hany longer, ye sent him afther the p’lice ? ” 

A sickening sensation of weakness was taking 
possession of me ; but feeling the necessity of 
knowing all that Mary could tell me, there was, in 
the excitement of my curiosity, a counteracting Influ- 
ence that sustained me. “Mary,” I said, insinuat- 
ingly, “ do you really know everything ? ” 

“ Oh yes. Miss, I knows as ’ow ye ’as ’elped Miss 
Mabel and the ’andsome young man to elope ! But 
ye ’as been good to me, and hit’s not the likes o’ 
Mary Sullivan that wiU tell hon ye.’’ 


70 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


“Mary,” I said, coaxingly, “I want yon to tell 
me everything you saw and heard yesterday after- 
noon.” 

“Well, Miss, ye knows what strict borders ye 
gives me not to let hany one go hup to ye widout 
a-tellin’ ye ; and ye see when the young man comes 
yesterday, he wasn’t a-mindin’ me, but goes straight 
hup to yer room, a-sayin’ that ye w^as expectin’ 
’im. I was thinkin’ he might be a thief ; so when 
yer door was shut, I went hup the stairs to watch. 
And just has I gets hup, I ’eard a big sound, so sud- 
like, hit took me hoff my feet ; and as hit was a 
cornin’ from yer room, 1 was frightened; and ye 
knows as ’ow I opens the door, and was a-lookin’ 
hin, when the ’ansome young man steps hup to me 
a-smilin’, and a-sayin’, — 

“^Oh, we didn’t ring for ye, my good girl! We 
was honly experimentin’ wid this new gong that 
I brought for Miss Illinore.’” 

“ And ye knows. Miss, as 'ow I said,” ‘ indade and 
I don’t want to be took hoff my feet, ivery time 
that Miss Illinore wants me, by a sharp soundin’ 
thing like that!’ “And, Miss, ye was a-starin’ at 
the young man as hif ye wasn’t a-liken hit aither. 
Well, hit wasn’t long afther that till I sees ye and 
the young lady, and the ’ansome man, a-comin’ 
down the stairs — where I was a-workin’ aroundr:^ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


71 


and go hont togither. And je knows as ’ow I ^ad 
just finished a puttin^ yer room to rights, when ye 
all comes hack again — and a hoy along wid ye, a 
carrying a valise; and hw the ’ansome man tells 
me to fetch hup some hice water. And then Miss, 
the young lady wasn’t careful. She's one o’ them 
folks what thinks a servant his nohody ; for when 
I brings the water hup, she went hon a talkin,’ — 
^ Oh Nellie, ’ow good ye are ! And to think hit, is 
ye what ’as planned hevery thing, widout me knowin’ 
hit ! Nellie dear, honly try and keep mamma and 
papa has long has ye can, from findin ’ it hout, and 
give us time to get away. Ye are diver enough to 
do hit, I knows ; and, Nellie, when we are settled, 
ye must come and live wid us — Marcus and me.’ 

^^That was what the young lady said. Miss 
Illinore, and then I was too far hout huv the room 
to ’ear the rest; hut I ’ad ’eard enough to know 
that Miss Mahel was a-goin’ to elope with the 
’ansome man, and that ye was a — ^helpin’ thim, and 
I says to meself : ‘ The young couple ’as the right 
huv hit, seein’ hit’s Miss Illinore what’s a-helpin’ 
thim ! ’ After that I was cur’ous to know the 
hend, so I waited around till I sees the carriage 
come, and ye hall got hin, and the valise wid ye, and 
went riden’ hoff togither. I went hout meself 
afther that — ^has hit was me evenin’ hout — and 


72 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


seein’ hit was late when I comes back, and bw 
hit was dark hin yer rooms, I thought ye ’ad gone 
to bed; and knowin’ what ’ad ’appened, I wasn’t 
a-goin’ to let the ould gintleman go hup to yer 
room ; so I tells ’im ye was hout. But he said he 
was a-knowin’ hit, and that he was a-goin’ to wait 
for ye. Then I comes hup wid ’im, and indade. 
Miss, hit was meself that was taken a-back, to find 
yer door unlocked, and yerself as pretendin’ to be 
aslape hon the chair ; so I says to meself, ^ I’ll be 
afther a lavin’ the door a bit hopen’ to see what 
hit’s hall about.’ And hit wasn’t long afore I was 
, a thinkin — ‘ Miss Illinore is a playin’ to keep the 
ould gintleman has long has she can, from goin’ 
afther the young couple what ’as eloped. I was 
kind o’ frightened when the ould gintleman brought 
me hin ; but he didn’t get hanything hout huv me. 
Miss Illinore, did he ? ” 

Mary had been so faithful to me; above all, she 
had absolute faith in my uprightness of character, 
and in the prudence of my actions— that had been 
open as the day, — and I could not bear the thought 
that she, servant though she waSj should believe 
me capable of a deception so gross, so odious in its 
nature as that in which it would seem to her I had 
taken so large a part. But a burning fever was 
consuming me ; my head was aching, horribly ach- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


73 


ing, in every nerve ; and added to this physical pain,' 
was the feeling of hopelessness at the thought of 
trying to combat the evidence that would be used 
with fatal force against me ; so that it was not with 
the energy that might have impressed one with its 
truth, that 1 attempted to explain the situation to 
Mary. 

Mary,’’ I said, you have heard of people walk- 
ing in their sleep, and of their saying and doing 
things they could not remember, when awake, of 
having done and said?” (Mary promptly replied 
that she had.) ^^WeU.” I continued, “such people 
can be put to sleep at any time, by those who know 
how to do it; and while they are asleep, their 
thoughts and their actions are under the control of 
another, or others, and they are neither conscious 
nor responsible for what they say or do, nor havd 
they any recollection of it afterwards, when awake. 
Mary, I am like this — ^that is, I am one of those 
people who walk, and talk, and act, in their sleep ; 
and Marcus Pancho — ^him whom you know as the 
^handsome man’ — is the only one that knew this 
unfortunate fact. I believed myself cured of the 
dangerous malady ; but, alas, I know now that I am 
still its victim. Marcus Pancho is my deadly 
enemy ; and, Mary, this is what happened to me, 
without my knowing it, yesterday afternoon — was 


74 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


put to sleep. Marcus Pancho put me to sleep hj 
tlie sudden striking of a gong — ^which he had con- 
cealed from me, but which he told you he had 
brought for me, and which you see he has not left 
behind him to betray him ; and while I was uncon- 
scious, I must have said and done all that he wished 
me to say and do. I was in this sleep — ^this curious, 
this dreadful sleep — from the time of the striking 
of the gong, until Mr. Livingston came, when the 
sudden blaze of light aroused me. This is why, 
Mary, I wished you to tell me all, precisely as it 
occurred ye^erday afternoon; for you understand 
that I myself have no recollection of anything.” 

Mary evidently did not ^‘understand” although 
I had tried to give the explanation in as simple a 
manner as possible— -for she regarded me with an 
unmistakable air of disappointment and reproach. 
Then she said, with that blandness of tongue, and 
that fineness of dissimulation peculiar to the Irish, 
that carries with the severest significance an emol- 
lient, — 

“ And don’t ye be afther a tellin’ to anither a story 
like that, me swate lady ! And shure, that don’t 
say ye needs tell the truth, aither — as ’ow ye ’as 
’elped the young folks to elope. Who’s a-knowin’ 
hit, for shure, but yerself and me ? And his hit me 
what ’as told the ould gintleman what I knows ? 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


75 


No ; nor Ms Mt the likes o’ me that will tell lion ye ! 
And, Miss Illinore, hif I was ye, what ’as played so 
foine, I would’nt be a weakenin’ now.” 

The faithful, good-hearted girl, h^ evidently 
enjoyed immensely the whole of the strange and 
fatal occurrence that she was pleased to designate 
as my playin.” The moral impropriety of the act, 
land its results upon others, did not seem to occur to 
her ; consequently, she did not like my weakenin ” 
— for so she regarded my explanation, and I had no 
longer the force to reason with her ; neither had I 
the strength to go to the Livingston’s, as I had 
intended to do, even at that late hour ; for to the 
pain of my fevered brow was added a sudden dizzi- 
ness, and my head fell heavily to the pillow of the 
sofa upon which I was seated. Mary, thinking that 
I simply wished to rest, went softly out of the room, 
and I was left alone with the appalling thoughts 
that crowded upon me. 

Certainly I had been terribly and fatally mistaken 
in believing that Marcus had grown either indiffer- 
/ent or friendly in his heart to me. On the contrary, 
his desire to torture me, and his fitness to do it, had 
increased : for I was again the victim of Ms revenge 
— a revenge that was more fiendish in its conception, 
and more disastrous in its effects than any of which 
I had been, in the past, the victim. And he had 


76 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


cLosen MaLel, because she was dear to me, to be the 
instrument of his revenge. This thought was more 
distressing to me than the thought of any misfor- 
tune to myself. What had been the extent of his 
wrong to her, I could not of course determine ; but 
whatever he had done had not been, I was sure of 
that, half done. Without doubt Marcus and Mabel 
had gone away together. He must have succeeded 
in gaining her devotion to himself to a remarkable 
degree; for — ^from what Mary had related to me — 
it was evident that she had fled with him gladly, 
and of her own will. But I could not believe that 
she had knowingly taken part in the diabolical plot 
that Marcus had arranged in order to thoroughly 
implicate me, and to bring about my ruin. Mabel 
had been so loving, so clinging on that afternoon. 
Alas ! I understood now why she had been so. 

What was I to do ? The very nature of Marcus^ 
revenge — as he had foreseen — ^had made me help- 
less. How was I to give a satisfactory explanation 
to others, of a condition whose phenomena I could 
not satisfactorily explain to myself ? Mary, my 
faithful servant, who had always loved me, and 
implicitly trusted me, had not believed the truth as 
I believed it ; and I could not hope that others woxdd 
believe it. Mr. Livingston had concluded that 1 had 
been drugged. What if I also should pretend to a 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


7T 

belief in that conclusion, and thus escape aU respon- 
sibility and all blame ? Such an ignoble method was 
unworthy of me, I knew that, and that I could never 
agree to protect myself by falsehood ; besides, it was 
a falsehood that was liable at any moment to be 
brought to light by the revelations — ^yet unknown to 
me — of others. No ! Whatever might be the 
result, I determined to tell the truth; and having 
thus determined, I was ready to go to the home of 
Mabel. It was not yet five o’clock ; but while I had 
been thinking, I had been resting ; and after calling 
Mary, and bidding her inform Mr. Livingston — 
should he come for me — ^that I had gone to his house, 
jvith a heavy heart I went out into thei morning air. 


78 


,THE DEVIL AND I. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Mr. Livingston had doubtless given certain orders 
in regard to me, for I was shown at once to his study 
to await his return ; the housekeeper informing me 
that Mrs. Livingston was completely prostrated, 
and unable to see me. She, the housekeeper, eyed 
me curiously as she said this; the servant who 
opened the door had also given me a curious glance ; 
and Rosa, Mabel’s maid — ^who with tear swollen eye- 
lids passed me in the hall — ^had looked at me in the 
same strange manner. Did they pity me — as a vic- 
tim of the mystery that enveloped the household, or 
did they suspect me — as an accomplice of it? 
Through the half open door of the study cahae the 
sounds of low whispering, and of that solemn con- 
fusion that denotes the presence of death in a 
household, or of a calamity. Soon there were 
sounds of other voices and footsteps, and Mr. Liv- 
ingston entered, accompanied by a man who I knew 
— ^before he was designated to me as such — ^was a 
detective. Mr. Livingston’s face was pale and hag- 
gard; traces of the last hours of terrible anxiety 
had made it an older one. He did not seem to heed 
my eager, tearful questioning, but said at once, — • 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


79 


We haye not been able to find the slightest trace 
of either my daughter or Mr. Pancho.” Then look- 
ing at me keenly, he added, ^‘We called for you, 
Miss Ellinore, before coming here; and we were 
informed that other occupants of the house in which 
you have your apartment, saw you go out and come 
in several times yesterday afternoon, accompanied 
by a young man, and a young lady whom they rec- 
ognized as my daughter ; the last time, however, you 
were seen to enter the house with the young man, 
alone, w’ho went away some time after without you. 
Where was Mabel during this your last interview 
with Marcus ? Where was the ^ dramatic enter- 
tainment ’ you expected to attend last night, and for 
which — ^as Mabel assured her maid — ^the dresses 
and the jewelry we find missing, were required? 
You came with Mabel here, and waited with Mr. 
Pancho in the reception-room until she had pro- 
cured what she required from her wardrobe. 
Another fact we have learned, is, that the telegram 
I sent Mabel was not only delivered at this house, 
but that it was received at the door by a young lady 
whom, by the description, I know to have been my 
daughter. Miss Ellinore, I admit that your situa- 
tion, at present, is not an agreeable one, and I am 
not astonished that you were frightened last night 
at the contemplation of it ; however, we expect you 


80 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


to give us a tliorouglily satisfactory explanation of 
the faets as you must know them, and of all that 
occurred during the absence of Mrs. Livingston and 
and myself, until the moment you were — drugged.’^ 
The tones of Mr. Livingston’s voice — ^which were 
singularly hard — and his manner of emphasizing 
certain words, were ominous. I knew that he no 
longer believed that I had been drugged ; and that 
he had in his mind a suspicion of what I felt to be 
the truth — ^that Mabel had fled with Marcus. I 
was sure, too, that in the household of Mr. Living- 
ston I was a suspected person ; and I did not feel 
that I had the courage to speak at all, much less to 
make the curious statement I was about to make, 
and which I knew must be believed entirely, in 
order to exonerate me, if believed at all, or discarded 
as an invention of my own. Besides, 1 could not 
know what might yet be revealed to make my story 
seem stiU more improbable ; for had not Mr. Living- 
ston made known to me a new fact — ^that when I 
returned the last time, while Mary was absent, to my 
apartment, I had returned alone with Marcus ? Mr. 
Livingston had said he expected a thoroughly satis- 
factory explanation,” but I knew that he demanded 
it — ^and that explanation I should not be able to 
give. So that it was with a sickening sense of fail- 
ure, that I said,— 


THE DEVIL AND 1 . 81 

“ Mr. Livingston, I told yoa the truth, as I know 
it, last night ; that Mabel came to my room yester- 
day afternoon, and that soon after Marcus Pancho 
came too; that from that time until I saw you, I 
have no recollection of anything. I know nothing 
of the telegram that you say was received ; I know 
nothing of the ^ dramatic entertainment ’ you speak 
of ; I remember nothing of having been to your 
house with Mabel and Marcus — I do not remember 
to have left my room at all. Believe me, Mr. Liv- 
ingston, I am a most unfortunate girl. I am a hyp- 
notic-somnambulist ; and if I have been a party to 
all that you and others say I have been, it was 
while I was in an unconscious condition — it was 
while I was asleep. Dio not be angry, Mr. Living- 
ston, do not, at least, express your opinion until I 
have told you some facts of the past of my life that 
you do not know ; I made this last appeal to Mr. 
Livingston, because, in his amazement and indigna- 
tion at the startling announcement I had made, he 
had sprung to his feet, and with a violent exclama- 
tion was about to express his feelings, when to my 
appeal the detective — with a significant look at Mr. 
Livingston — added, — 

^^The young lady is right. We will hear all that 
she has to tell us, before we shall presume to 
offer an opinion.’^, 


82 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


There was something in the detective’s manner 
of speaking, something in the expression of his 
face, that was meant to be disagreeably significant 
for me; and this impression, added to the heavy 
forboding of the hopelessness of my situation, 
weighed like an incubus upon me while I told the 
story of my life from my earliest remembrance of 
it — omitting only the fact that I had never known 
a father — until the present time. I also acknowl- 
edged my error in permitting myself to be deceived 
by the apparent happy change in Marcus, thus mak- 
ing myself responsible for his having been received 
into the home of Mabel. Finally, I concluded by 
expressing my absolute belief that Marcus had suc- 
ceeded — ^without my suspecting it, any more than 
her parents — in gaining the affection of Mabel ; and 
that after persuading her to fiee with him, he had 
produced upon me a somnambulistic — or hypnotic 
— condition, in order that I might, for the time, be 
subject to his will; and by making me — ^in the 
presence of unsuspecting witnesses — ^an unconscious 
assistant in the arrangements for his fiight with 
Mabel, cause me, without my knowing it, to impli- 
cate myself with his wrong doing, to a degree that 
would insure my utter inability to exonerate myself 
in the face of the fatal evidence that would be used 
against me, and that would insure also the complete 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


83 


ruin of my present repose and success; thus pro- 
curing for himself a revenge worthy of his supreme 
wickedness and his supreme vindictiveness. 

All through my recital the detective had never 
ceased to regard me ; and with every advance in my 
story, the curious fixedness of his regard took an 
expression of increasing admiration — an admiration 
that terrified me ; and when I had ceased to speak, 
he waited a moment, glancing at Mr. Livingston; 
and seeing that gentleman had not yet sufficient 
command of himself for utterance, he said — ^with 
the air of one who had an opinion, the truth of 
which he has not the slightest doubt, — 

^^You are very clever. Miss. I have seen many 
clever ones, but never one so finely clever as you. 
What a capital story you have told, to be sure ! 
With what apparent accuracy you have expressed 
the smallest detail ! There is nothing, Miss, I assure 
you, in the arrangement of your little romance,’ 
that would at all lead one to doubt its truth — 
except,’’ he added after an ominous pause — ^^iti 
utter improbability.” 

His words had the effect of an actual blow upon 
me ; and sick with dread I turned towards Mr. Liv- 
ingston, who feeling the necessity of saying some-' 
thing, came towards me with all the fury of a man 
who believes himself to have been first thoroughly 


84 


tHE DEVIL AND L 


duped, and then outraged to an extraordinary 
degree, and he thundered, rather than exclaimed, — 
^^You vile creature! You had offspring of a bad 
mother! You have confessed, yourself, to have 
done wrong in permitting a man that you hated, and 
whose character was such that you di’eaded its 
evil effects upon your own life, to enter the home 
that has protected you ; to possess himself of our 
affections ; to delude our daughter, to perhaps ruin 
her, and to disgrace the name of Livingston. And 
yet you pretend to know nothing of an intimacy 
which I am convinced could not have begun nor pro- 
gressed without your knowledge, and which there 
is proof that you not only approved of, but that you 
were the abettor, and perhaps the instigator of 
their disgraceful flight. For do not think that I 
believe your cunningly devised story of having 
talked, and walked, and acted in your sleep ! ” Then 
looking at me a moment with a glance of supreme 
contempt, he added, — “ The admirable manner you 
rehearsed your part last night, when I surprised 
you by my unexpected appearance, and the clever- 
ness of your recital just now, convince me that you 
will be able to achieve a brilliant success in one 
other natural perfection, besides badness — in the 
perfection of your dramatic talent. But I would 
advise you to go elsewhere— out of New York, 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


85 


Miss EUinore 5 for your acting henceforth here 
will produce upon those who know you hut one 
effect — ^that of intense disgust.” 

Oh, Mr. Livingston ! ” I cried, distractedly, I 
declare by all that is sacred, that I have told you 
what I believe to be the truth I I have been as 
greatly deceived as you, I have been as greatly 
wronged as you ! Find Mabel, Mr. Livingston, only 
find Mabel ! She has been persuaded by Marcus to 
leave her home ; but she loved me, she was loving 
me to the last — J. remember that ! She would not 
permit me to be so cruelly wronged by her wrong 
doing ! She would not have me looked upon as 
guilty, when I am wholly innocent ! She will write 
to you — she must write to you ! Her letter will 
explain everything ; wait for that letter, Mr. Living- 
ston, wait for it, I implore you!” 

An interruption prevented his reply ; and as if 
to grant my request of him in a horribly sinister 
and fateful way, a servant entered, followed by 
a boy with a letter in his hand, which he insisted 
upon giving himself to Mr. Livingston. 

Thank ’ee sir ! ” said the urchin, taking the 
dollar that Mr. Livingston gave him, and going 
towards the door. 

“Hold!” exclaimed the detective; “We may 
have need of you, after the gentleman reads the 
letter ! ” 


80 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


The boy came back with a grin, and the air of 
one who knows himself master of the situation. 

“ No sir ’ee ! 1 can’t wait till you read that 
letter — it’s too long. Wot I knows, I kin tell you 
now — that’s if you want ter know,” said the boy, 
with another grin. 

Who gave you this letter my lad ? ” asked Mr. 
Livingston impatiently, and trembling with agita- 
tion, as he took the letter from the envelope. 

“ Oh, you want ter know who guv me that letter, 
does you ? Wal, wot’s wuth knowin ’s wuth 
payin’ fur.” 

The second dollar was promptly given. 

‘‘Wal, you see, I wuz jes’ turnin’ the corner o’ 
Park Avenoo, when — ” 

“Was it last night or this morning?” inter- 
rupted Mr. Livingston. 

“I wuz jes turnin’ the corner o’ Park Avenoo,” 
continued the boy, paying no respect to the inter- 
ruption, “when a fine kerrige druv up, an’ a 
[mighty good lookin’ gent put’s his head out o’ the 
winder, an’ sez he — 

“Was there a young lady in the carriage with 
the gentleman?” Again interrupted Mr. Living-^ 
ston ; and again the boy went on heedless of the 
interruption. 

“ An’ sez he*,— ‘ Cum ’ere you brat,’— an’ I goes.^ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


87 


Bez he, ^You see this ^ere letter, an^ you see the 
address uv the house where it’s to go to; wal, you 
take this letter, to that house, an’ guv it to Mister 
Livin’ston. Don’t guv it to any one else, or you’ll 
not git payed fur it.’ That’s why I did’nt guv it to 
any one else.” 

^‘Was there a young lady in the carriage, and 
when was the letter given to you ? ” repeated Mr. 
Livingston sternly. 

“ That’s wot I won’t tell yer honor— not till you 
give me another shiner.” And the young scamp 
looked admiringly at the shiners ” he had already 
in his posesssion. 

You young rascal ! ” shouted the detective, dis- 
playing at the same time the insignia of his pro- 
fession. ^‘Do you see who I am; I could have 
made you tell all you know, without paying you 
anything ! ” 

^^JSTo — you — couldn’t;” drawled the imp, not in 
the least intimidated. ^‘It would’nt hev bin the 
truth, any how.” 

Mr. Livingston had already given the required 
dollar, and the small tormentor, turning towards 
him, continued, — 

^^Wal, you wantter know if there wuz a young 
lady in the kerrige. Wal, there wuz — a young lady 
dressed in blue; I alius pays perticlar ’tenshion 
to—” 


88 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


^^Well, wellj what else?’’ cried Mr. Livingston, 
burning with impatience to read the letter, but 
desiring to know first all that the boy had to tell. 
‘^Tell me, quickly, all you know.” 

^^Wal, you axed me when the letter wuz guv to 
me. Wal, it wuz guv to me this mornin’ ; an’ then 
— the kerrige druv off; an’ then — ^an’ then — ^wal, 
I hain’t nothin’ more to tell yer honor.” And the 
rapacious youngster looked, this time sadly, at the 
wealth of “ shiners ” that lay in his hand. 

The boy’s prompt dismissal was accelerated by 
a movement of the detective’s boot, while Mr. Liv- 
ingston proceeded in silence to read the letter, his 
face growing deadly pale, and a terrible indignation 
convulsing every feature. When he had finished 
the reading he turned to the detective, and in a 
hard, cold tone of voice, that could not, however, 
conceal the intense suffering of the man, he 
said, — 

“It will not be necessary to search any longer 
for my daughter. This letter explains everything 
— everything he repeated, looking menacingly 
at me. Then again to the detective — Go, at once, 
and employ every means to stop all efforts to find 
my daughter, and, as much as you can, to stop all 
interest, all curiosity in regard to her. Say that 
I know where she is, and that I am perfectly satis- 
fied to permit her to remain where she is.” 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


89 


This was all. The detective’s face mutely asked 
for more information, and in going out he looked 
regretfully at me, with the thought, no doubt, that 
he had been unexpectedly deprived of the enjoy- 
ment of making startling discoveries in the devel- 
opment of the depravity that had been revealed — 
as he believed — in my explanation, which he had 
designated as “a capital story.” But Mr. Liv- 
ingston’s inexorable pride was well known, and his 
manner was not to be misunderstood. Nothing 
more was to be done in the affair, and nothing more, 
to him, spoken of it. Whatever had happened, he 
wished the world to believe, or to appear to him to 
believe, that nothing had happened. He wished 
them to imply from his own actions and appear- 
ance, that, as he considered it, nothing had hap- 
pened. Above all, his reserve would admit of no 
questioning ; and as tlie detective thus understood ^ 
it, so Mr*. Livingston meant that henceforth every- 
body should understand it. 

As soon as we were alone, Mr. Livingston came 
towards me, and thrusting the letter into my grasp 
with one hand, and with the other upraised in a 
threatening manner, he exclaimed with a vehe- 
mence that appalled me, — 

Read that, and curses be upon you ! You^ the 
false woman who stole into our home that you might 


90 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


darken it foreyer, and into our hearts that you might 
make them joyless forever ! You, the false teacher 
who fostered in the mind of your pupil an unnatu* 
ml mistrust of her parents, while you taught her 
how to deceive us into believing the contrary ! You, 
who had the appearance of an angel of truth that 
was leading our child to a happier living, while you 
were in secret assuring her ruin ! You, who have 
deceived Mabel to the last, by a cunning hypocrisy, 
and who still hoped to deceive her parents by the 
fabrication of a tale worthy of your cleverness 
and your badness ! And you have done all this in 
the desire and the expectation of being received 
yourself into the home from which you have suc- 
ceeded in banishing the daughter ; to i^eive perma- 
nently for yourself the benefits that have been so 
largely lavished upon you, and from which you 
^ have effectually excluded the daughter ! This, your 
ambition and your hope, which is perfectly clear 
to me, has occurred, at the latest hourj in a vague 
way, even to the weak mind of your victim. It 
was agreed, she says, that you were to tell us, after 
a time, the truth — ^that is, the truth of your part 
in the shameful affair,* but fearing that remorse 
for what you have done, and your pity for our lone- 
liness, and your desire to console us, might induce 
you to remain with us — ^which we certainly would 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


91 


have wished had you proved all that we believed 
you to be — ^to prevent this, she herself concluded 
to tell the truth ; and she gives as her reason for 
betraying you, her extravagant fondness for you, 
and her fear of losing you : while the real reason 
— which is that she has an instinctive warning 
of your falseness, and of your evil design — she does 
not yet comprehend. How little her childish mind 
could conceive of a method so uniquely clever as 
that with which you hoped to preserve not only our 
esteem and affection, but to merit also our pity, 
as a victim, with us, of our misfortune ! Mabel 
still blindly trusts that you will go to her, to stay 
with her in her fortune or misfortune — ^as you made 
her believe. But, although henceforth I shall have 
no daughter, she shall know this, as the world shall 
know it: that I have respected the last desire 
expressed in her letter — that I have ^recompens- 
ed you according to your worth ; ^ that the good 
fortune you expected to reap from your vile success, 
has proved your misfortune; that as you, despised 
by me, interdicted by me, are forbidden to enter 
my house or my presence, so you will be despised 
by others who esteemed you, so you will be suspect- 
ed by others who trusted in you, so you will be 
abandoned by those who patronized you. The ruin 
you have brought upon others, shall fall also upon 
yourself.’’ 


92 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


I had taken Mabel’s letter— the letter, alas, that 
I had prayed for in the belief that it would prove 
my innocence, and exonerate me from all blame — 
and when Mr. Livingston had ceased to utter the 
words and maledictions that turned my heart to 
stone, I read, as well as I was able then to read it, 
the last proof required in the fatal circumstances 
that were destined to condemn me. 

<^My dear Father and Mother: — I address 
you thus, probably for the last time. I have always 
felt that the enjoyments and the privileges I have 
shared with you, as your daughter, were lavished 
upon me more in a spirit of pride than of affection. 
Lately I have had more reason than ever to believe 
this, and I am certain the same pride will never 
permit you either to pardon me, or to make the 
slightest attempt — once you know the truth— to 
induce me to return ; and the truth is, that I am not 
the wife of Marcus Pancho, although I have already 
lived with him as his wife. You will say that this 
sin — ^this shame for me, this disgrace for you — 
was unnecessary; that as you knew Marcus, you 
admired him, and would have consented to our mar- 
riage. Alas ! Marcus can not marry me. He is 
bound by an oath he can not break, either to marry 
another, or not to marry at all. Well, it is only the 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


93 


old story — Marcus loves me, and I can not give him 
up. I will go with him wherever he goes. I never 
was happy until I knew he loved me. N^o one ever 
loved me as he loves me. But even were he to love 
me less than he now loves me, I would still rather 
go with him, his friend, his slave, to he something 
to him, anything to him, rather than lose the enjoy- 
ment I have now with him — ^rather than to he again 
the lonely and discontented girl, to he pitied hy 
you and others, that I have always heen. 

You will he happier, once you are rid of me 
entirely through no fault of yours. I should always 
he a source of emharrassment and of humiliation 
to you ,* and no discipline, no education, could ever 
have justified your introducing me, with pride, as 
your daughter — ^and the coming season you would 
have heen forced to introduce me. 

I have wondered why Marcus loves me — I who am 
so unlovable, and who have heen so little loved hy 
others. I believe, now, it is because I am so faith- 
ful to him, because I love him so. N'elUe loves me 
too — and she is beautiful; like Marcus. N^elhe loved 
me at first because she pitied me. I know that now 
— now that I know I owe N'elUe everything. She 
will understand what I mean hy everything. It 
was she who planned all that occurred for Marcus 
and me — even our first apparently accidental meet: 


94 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


ing in the A-rt-rooms. She knew all about our secret 
meetings, every afternoon during your absence. 
But I never suspected her of knowing anything; 
Marcus did not wish me to know the truth — not yet. 
We, Marcus and I, had made our plans for a later 
day; but your telegram, announcing your unex- 
pected return, precipitated our m.ovements. I was 
so sorry to leave Nellie, so sorry to grieve her, as I 
thought, by going away with Marcus. I had gone 
to her room, I was trying to give her, without her 
suspecting it, a last goodby, when Marcus came in. 
It was only then that I learned that Nellie knew all. 
I was so astonished, and so glad; but we had no 
time to talk, Nellie and 1 — ^Marcus did not wish us 
to lose a moment, he was in such haste to get away. 
But it was Nellie that arranged everything — ^as 
Marcus sugg'ested — ^and that did everything. It was 
agreed that she should keep from you, so long as she 
could, the fact of our flight ; but in the end she was 
to tell you all about it, and that she had given our 
intimacy and our flight, her approval and her assist- 
ance 

You would never believe how much Nellie 
thought of my happiness, and how little she thought 
of her own, in doing all that she did for Marcus 
and me ; but now that I know it, and the more I 
think of it, the greater is my desire that she keep 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


95 


her promise — made at our parting — ^to come to 
us, wherever we might he, to live with us, always — 
with Marcus and me. And it is the fear, suddenly 
grown insupportable, that Nellie may not Jceep her 
promise ; that in her attachment to you, as well as 
to me, and in her pity for your loneliness, and in 
her remorse for having been the cause of it, she will 
even persuade herself that her duty is to remain 
with you ; the fear of all this — that would prevent 
her from making a frank statement to you of the 
truth — has impelled me to inform you of the facts 
of the case. You will know that Nellie is one with 
us ; you will be indignant towards her, as you are 
tow^ards us ,* you will banish her from your house, 
as we are banished. And to whom will she go, but 
to us, who know her true worth, and who are one 
in our desire to recompense her according to that 
worth. 

Goodby, father and mother. I shall not be far 
from you when you will receive this letter; but 
were I still nearer, I should know then, as I know 
now, that we are parted forever ; that nothing could 
change your determination never to see me again, 
any more than anything could change my determin- 
ation to go with Marcus.’^ 

This letter was both a revelation and a mystery 


96 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


to me. The horrible frankness with which Mabel 
accused her parents of lack of affection for herself, 
and her belief in their indifference to her fate — 
which Mr. Livingston charged to my influence — 
were, plainly enough to me, the result of Marcus’ 
subtle and wicked persuasions. It was also evident 
to me, that the manner in which she expressed that 
which seemed to Mr. Livingston her extraordinary 
affection for me, and gratitude to me, had been 
suggested by Marcus and designed by him, for the 
purpose of conveying to others the indisputable evi- 
dence of the guilt I denied, and to reveal at the 
same time to me, individually, the whole diabol- 
ical plan of his revenge. But this was not all. 
There was an adroit frankness in the statements of 
what she must know to be false, and in the under- 
lining of certain words, and in the manner of ex- 
pression, that was meant to convey one meaning 
to me, and another to others, that convinced me that 
Mabel had written the letter with an individual 
purpose, and an individual satisfaction. It was 
as though she had suddenly discovered that I was 
her enemy, and that it was necessary to hate me; 
and that to the revenge of Marcus was added also 
the revenge of Jilabel. She had loved me and 
believed in me, until the coming of Marcus that 
afternoon. Could it be possible that she believed 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


97 


true all that she had written in that letter, and that 
it was during mj unconscious condition that Mar- 
cus had persuaded her to believe it ? But there was 
something else implied in the letter, that I could 
hot understand; some accusation of a horrible 
nature in regard to me, by which Marcus had suc- 
ceeded in changing suddenly her faith in me, and her 
affection for me, into mistrust and hate. 

All this I comprehended and rapidly reflected 
upon, in the reading and re-reading of the letter, dur- 
ing which Mr. Livingston maintained a stern silence. 
When I attempted to speak, he refused to listen. 
I begged to see Mrs. Livingston, but I was not per- 
mitted to do so ; and when I left the house, it was 
with the understanding that I should not enter it 
again. 


98 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


CHAPTER Vn. 

It was true, as Mabel had written, that the inflex- 
ible pride of her parents would not permit them to 
receive her in the future as their daughter, or to 
publicly recognize her existence. The disgrace was 
of too shameful a character to admit of an open rec- 
onciliation. But she deeply outraged her parents 
when she imputed to them a want of natural affec- 
tion. They had, it is true, been disappointed in the 
singularly unlovable disposition of their daughter; 
but her very weakness, and the morbid sensative- 
ness of her nature, had deepened their affection for 
her, and had added an immense pity for her un- 
happy temperament. But the shameful ingratitude 
expressed in her letter, the absence of any proof of 
her appreciation of, or even a belief in their affec- 
tion for her; the dreadful suggestion that they 
would look upon her desertion of them and her home 
with a sense of relief ; her own complete indiffer- 
ence to the disgrace and immorality of her conduct 
— all this, so outraged the feelings of the agonized 
father and mother, and, in furnishing them with 
what they believed to be the unmistakable proof of 
a most unnatural ingratitude and bad heartedness, 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


99 


effectually depiived the unfortunate girl of what 
would have been — ^had she shown a spirit of contri- 
tion — that still loving, ever watchful, ever anxious 
solicitude, that, although secret and silent, would 
have followed her throughout her erring and inev- 
itable suffering pathway. But henceforth her name 
was a forbidden one in the household; and, so far 
as the world could judge, it was worse than if she 
had died — it was as though she had never existed. 

I was far from believing Mabel the unfeeling and 
depraved girl her parents felt themselves justified — 
by her letter — in believing. Without doubt she was 
madly infatuated with Marcus. His beauty of face 
and of person had completely fascinated her. 
Above all, his caressing manner, the tenderness 
he knew so well to dissemble, had completed his 
influence upon her ; he had deceived her from the 
first. He was charming for a purpose, he was ten- 
der for a purpose. He had been quick to note the 
weakness of her character, and her admiration of 
him, and he had taken advantage of both. He had 
perceived her erroneous ideas in regard to her par- 
ents, and had encouraged them by creating more. 
Finally, after having attained a wished for degree 
of success — while still permitting Mabel to love me ; 
to insure another degree of success, he induced her 
to regard me as her enemy. The whole was a fiend- 


100 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


isli plan to bring about my ruin j and Mabel was sim- 
ply the means used to assure that ruin — a means 
that he would discard, once he was satisfied it could 
no longer be of use to him. I was certain that he 
had neither the desire nor the intention to marry 
her ; and that his story of being bound to another, 
was an invention of his. The unfortunate Mabel 
was ready to believe anything, and to excuse every- 
thing. But I was sure that the time would come 
when Marcus would undeceive her — horribly unde- 
ceive her j and my heart was sick with the thought 
of what her future might be. I believed then, I 
believe now, that she was more sinned against than 
sinning; that she was more to be pitied than con- 
demned ; and my gi’eatest desire was to find her, and 
convince her of her peril, and, through her repent- 
ance, reconcile her to her parents and vindicate 
myself. But, although I followed, with the same 
enthusiasm, every one of the numberless traces des- 
ignated, each had the same ending in failure and dis- 
appointment. I saw no sign of either Mabel or Mar- 
cus, and heard no word of them. 

It was as I feared it would be — could not con- 
vince any one of the truth, as I believed it to be. 
Belief in the power to produce upon certain indi- 
viduals a hypnotic sleep — or a state of artificial som- 
nambulism — was at that time entertained only by 


THE DEVIL AND T. 


101 


comparatively few. Men of science had not yet 
given to the general public the startling results of 
their experiments. As Mr. Livingston had consid- 
ered my statement — worthy of my dramatic tal- 
ent ; ’’ as the detective had admired the cleverness of 
its conception; as Mary, my faithful servant, had 
come to believe that I was the victim of an halluci- 
nation ; as these three had received it — so others 
received it. 

My position was more than embarrassing — it was 
distressing. The wealth and influence of Mr. Liv- 
in^ton had kept all mention of the unfortunate 
affair from the journals ; but the social world of 
which the Livingstons were a distinguished part, 
talked freely and excitedly about it. The entire his- 
tory of my past life, the prejudices against me, the 
opprobrium of my birth, all the humiliating expe- 
riences of the past, everything that had occurred, 
and far more than had occurred, was talked about, 
and commented upon ; and I was more than mildly 
denounced — 1 was discarded. 

Nothing was more difficult for me than to find a 
friend — for me, who had a short time before 
rejoiced in the possession of so many and such 
admiring friends. They were a few who pitied me, 
who believed that in some mysterious way I had 
been implicated against my will; but they were 


102 


THE DEVIL' AND 1. 


sorry I had invented an improhahle story, instead 
of courageously confessing the truth; and they 
had not the courage to express, in the faces of the 
many who condemned me, their pity and this belief. 

There was then hut one thing to do ; and, after 
all my painful experience, it was the one thing I 
wished to do — ^to leave New York ; to quit the City 
that no longer gave me the favor and the affection 
it had once lavished upon me. I could no longer be 
useful there ; I was no longer beloved, and I was 
no longer happy. I was done with the East, as it 
jivas done with me. And where else should I go, 
where else would any one, in a similar situation, 
go — ^but to the West? To the wide-spreading, far- 
reaching, always inviting West. To the land of 
fair skies and fresh breezes ; of royal mountains 
and majestic rivers: of gi’aceful prairies and 
flowering canyons ; of gay young cities and enchant- 
ing solitudes. To the West, not only of immense 
self aggrandizing possibilities, wherein the foreign 
and home money-seekers find money ; to which the 
politicians, the rulers, the factionists, the eccle- 
siastics, from aU countries — defeated, banished, sup- 
pressed, persecuted — ^bring themselves and their 
ambition, to hope again, to strive again, to acquire 
again ; but to the hospitable West, the charitable 
West, the encouraging and the inspiring West — ^the 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


103 


help and the home of the wearied, much wronged, 
much abused, but still worthy, and still aspiring 
individual. 

I had been greatly wronged, and I had suffered 
much ; but I did not despair, and I was not incon- 
solable. I had youth, and health, and an occupa- 
tion; with these — though poor in what remains 
of happy living — one is rich. Once in the West, 
I was curious to know what my near future would 
be, hoAV it would be. Curiosity to know what some- 
thing yet unknown may be, some times gives us the 
courage to seek for it. With every disappointment 
I was more eager to succeed; and in time, the 
benign destiny that has always assured to my own 
efforts a certain success, rewarded my faith and my 
diligence. However, I did not forget that each 
success of the past had been followed by a mis- 
fortune also assured to me by a destiny not benign. 
No repose of the present, no success of the present, 
could again persuade me that it would remain an 
undisturbed repose, or an undisturbed success — not 
so long as Marcus Pancho lived. But once we are 
convinced of the existence of a persistent and tor- 
menting obstacle we can not rid ourselves of, we 
wisely determine to live the best we can, with the 
expectation always of something disagreeable to 
happen. We know that this life is robbed of half 


104 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


of its enjoyment; bnt we find it agreeable to 
enjoy the other half. It is like walking through 
life with a lame member ; but it is better than not 
walking at all. 

So I reasoned, when I found myself in a posi- 
tion so agreeable to me, and so satisfactory, that 
if I deplored the manner in which I had been 
deprived of my former position, that had also been 
agreeable and satisfactory, I would not have been 
willing to return to it then, if I could have done so. 
In short, I found myself the principle instructress 
of elocution in the best reputed college of one of 
largest, most enterprising, and most cultured cities 
(»f the West. And as I had been singularly success- 
ful and popular in that great city of the East, so I 
became singularly successful and populaj* in this 
great city of the West. 


THE DEVIL AND L 


105 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Among the many delightful acquaintances I made 
in the West, the most delightful was Mrs. Edmonds. 
While still young, she had been left a widow with 
one child and an immense fortune. Mrs. Edmonds 
was born in England ; but orphaned at an early 
age, she and an older sister — who were the only 
children— were left to the care of kinsfolk; the 
sister remaining in England, while Mrs. Edmonds, 
then only three years of age, was brought to this 
country. Living in the West, educated there — 
although subsequently she traveled extensively 
abroad — allying herself to the spirit of progress 
there, she was a true type of the cultured Western 
woman. 

We do not dispute the innovation that has made 
the sweet word woman the universal word, instead 
of the much abused and often mis-applied distinc- 
tion of lady. But there are women whom no one 
word, and no assemblage of words, can convey a 
just complement of all they possess of good-breed- 
ing, of unvarying courtesy, of delicacy — of that inde- 
finable fineness that is expressed in the word lady. 
Mrs. Edmonds was a lady; and the persuasion 


106 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


within herself that she was one, that following 
her natural inclinations she could never be other- 
wise than one — ^this was the persuasion that instinct- 
ivel}^ took possession of all who knew her. 

Successful, and at the same time superior individ- 
uals, can only be truly independent, can only be 
thoroughly themselves to everybody with impunity 
— ^that is, without fear of bringing upon themselves 
the disagreeable results of the envy and malevo- 
lence of those who are inferior and less fortunate 
— ^when they are truly the possessors of lofty prin- 
ciples, and when they fearlessly and persistently 
live these principles. 

A universal courtesy, a universal charity, a uni- 
versal good-heartedness, secured to Mrs. Edmonds 
a universal liberty. But while to the rich and the 
poor, the honored and the despised, the distinguished 
and the obscure, the successful and the unfortu- 
nate, to the erring but repentant, as well as to the 
thoroughly correct individual, there was no variation 
from this courtesy, this charity, and this good- 
heartedness ; yet, the genuineness of her goodness, 
as well as the genuineness of her supremacy, secured 
her from the soiling of familiarity. Energetic and 
industrious, queenly and compassionate, cheerful 
ajid cheering, lovable and loving ; the influence of 
this woman, the jDerfume of her goodness, was a> 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


107 


mighty and far-reaching good, as it was a refresh- 
ing and soft-falling incense, that fortified the minds, 
and gladdened the hearts of all who knew her, and of 
many that had only heard of her. 

Through my acquaintance with this admirable 
woman, I was introduced to a young lady with whom 
I formed an intimacy that was in itself the great- 
est blessing I had yet known, and that was the 
source of a later intimacy with another — ^an inti- 
macy that was the sweetest, the best of my 
life. 

Georgine Ellerton was the daughter of Mrs. 
E(hnonds’ sister, who had remained in England. 
Georgine, and a brother older than herself, had 
been left ori)hans at an early age, as their mother 
and aunt had been. Mrs. Edmonds, whom the then 
roving disposition of her son had left often alohe^ 
eagerly welcomed the beautiful child to her heart 
and to her home. Whether it was a natural resem- 
blance, owing to the close relationship of the two, 
or whether it was the result of Mrs. Edmonds’ care- 
ful training of the child, and her constant associa- 
tion with her, I do not know; but in character 
and in temperament, in all that rendered her aunt 
so charming and so lovable, Georgine. was the exact 
counterpart. 

Georgine was about the same age as myself ; and 


108 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


the sympathy that had, at the first sight of each! 
other, so strangely attracted us, one toward the 
other, became a friendship so true and tender, so 
mutually unselfish, so mutually helpful, in short, 
so extraordinary in its character and its reliability, 
that I think I am correct in believing that between 
woman and woman, the existence of a like friend-^ 
ship is rare. 

* * ♦ * * * , 

O, Georgine, Georgine ! loving and 'beloved one, 

^ — ^let me see thee again ! Not as I saw thee last, 
and as I see thee oftenest now — so pale, and cold, 
and frightfully still; but warm, and joyous, and 
beautiful, as thou wert in the hafjpy time ! Let me 
see thee as I loved thee best— robed in a soft white 
gown that graced thy full, exquisite form ! Let me 
see again the waving brightness of the tawny hair ; 
the smooth, pure w^hiteness of the brow and cheek ; 
the sweet brown eyes, so tender and so glad; the 
mouth, the little, smiling mouth — oh heaven ! to 
, see again, to touch again so much of warmth, 
so much of lovliness, and then to know it is no longer 
in this world to see and touch, to know it is my 
fancy that has cheated me — ^this is to bring my 
deadened sense again to life, that I may feel the 
pain that I have felt. 

» « « • • 


* 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


109 


!B[ow Lappy we were together ! and we were al- 
ways together during the hours I could be absent 
from my duties. How unalloyed our enjoyment! 
How tender our affection for each other, how per- 
fect our trust in each other ! There was nothing 
in our past experience that we concealed from each 
other. With the exceptions of the death of her 
parents — ^which bereavement, at the time, she had 
been too young to fully comprehend — Georgine’s 
entire life had been a joyous one. Until we became 
attached to each other, her affection had been shared 
between her aunt and her brother. Towards the 
first it was an affection naturally the result of a 
long and tender association ; towards her brother 
— whom, with the exception of rare intervals, once 
when he had come to America, and several times 
during a visit to England, she had not seen since 
they were children — that which she designated as 
affection, was largely a feeling of reverence for 
what her memory imputed to him of moral and intel- 
lectual supremacy, and a passionate admiration 
of the personal charms he possessed. Thus the 
impulses of her heart were as pure as her expe- 
riences had been happy; experiences that were 
pleasing to tell and delightful to hear. 

On my part, I . withheld nothing that related to 
the history of my past life from either Georgine or 


no 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


her aunt. And nothing could be in greater con- 
trast with the peaceful life and happy confidences 
of Georgine, than the tragic character of my life, 
that necessitated startling confidences. But startling 
as they were, Mrs. Edmonds and Georgine repeat- 
edly assured me that the frankness of my confi- 
dence in them had endeared me still more to them, 
and that henceforth I should have not only their 
love and sympathy, but also their protection. The 
explanation of the curious facts that were the result 
of my malady, was credited at once by Mrs. Ed- 
monds. Her intelligent and well informed mind 
possessed a knowledge of certain scientific investi- 
gations and statements, which had prepared her 
to believe in the possibility of all that I related to 
her. Thus having added to my own courage the 
sympathy of Georgine and her aunt, I felt secure 
from a repetition of the past; or, at least, suffi- 
ciently strong to combat it should that repetition 
occur. But the misfortune against which we are 
fortified, does not always come; it is often a new 
experience and an unexpected one. 

A little more than a year from the beginning of 
my intimacy with Georgine, we were separated for 
the first time. ^rs. Edmonds accepted an invitation 
to visit a very dear friend of hers who lived in 
Canada. The season in Montreal was an nnusally 


THE DEVIL AND L 


111 


brilliant one, and Georgine was urged to accompany 
her aunt. Georgine had always greatly enjoyed 
her visit there, but this time it was with a strange 
reluctance that she assisted in the preparations that 
were necessary for their prolonged stay ; and it was 
only in the fear of wounding her aunt by a refusal,* 
that she at last fully decided to accompany her. 

“Oh, Ellinore,” she exclaimed, putting her face 
to mine, “ if it were only summer, and you could go 
with us, I should be wild with delight at the thought 
of going to Mrs. Fair lies’, for she is a charming 
hostess, and entertains royally, indeed, is as per- 
fect, in her way, as auntie, and we would all be so 
happy together ! But I do not want to leave you ! 
I cannot bear to interrupt the delightful routine 
of our life ! Auntie says I am really foolish, and that 
I shall only learn to fully appreciate you when X 
am parted from you. But I could not appreciate 
you more than I do now, little queen Ellinore; 
because one could not love another more that. I love 
you— could one, dear?” And having accompanied 
the question with an appealing look, she signified 
her satisfaction with my response by giving me an 
emphatic salute on either cheek. “Do you know, 
Ellinore,” she resumed, “that I am superstitious 
about this separation of ours? I would not tell 
auntie, for anything; she would laugh at me, and 


112 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


say it was only another excuse for not wanting to 
leave you. But I must tell you. You know I have 
olten said to you that I never felt sad. Well, I 
have felt, I am sure, more than sad ever since this 
invitation came — am depressed. And what fright- 
ens me, is, that while I can not imagine any reason 
for this depression, I am unable to rid myself of 
it. Let me tell you what I fear, Ellinore,’’ she said 
in a low voice, and with a look of affright in her 
eyes. “ 1 fear that something is going to happen ; 
something — ’’ then hesitating, as though unable to 
define what she felt, she added, with a little sigh, — 
“something that we shall not want to happen.” 

Holding her close to my heart, I quieted her fears 
by every reasonable suggestion that occured to me. 
How could I tell her that for the first time I had a 
secret from her? How could I encourage a sad- 
ness that wa-s so new to her — sadness for which 
I had no reason but my own feelings to invest with 
a significance ? How could I tell her that the same 
haunting depression that persistently troubled her, 
weighed also heavily upon me ? That it was more 
than a depression — it was a forboding? That it 
brought more than fear to me — it brought terror. 
Yet that was the truth ; and try to be happy, as I 
tried — Shaving no apparent reason not to be ; try to 
reason, to persuade myself of the uselessness of feel- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


113 


ing as I felt — all this was ineffectual. A profound 
mournfulness took possession of me — Si complete, a 
masterful possession. My reasoning was dominated 
by an indefinable dread, and but one persuasion re- 
mained — the persuasion that this first separation of 
Georgine and myself, this first interruption of the 
precious enjoyment that was the result of our 
friendship, this first beginning of a near future we 
knew nothing of, that this — ^this was the end of our 
peaceful life together, as it had been, of our happy 
life together, as it has been. 


314 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Not long after the departure of Georgine and 
her aunt, I was surprised to receive a letter from 
Mr. Sinclair, stating that my mother was in a dying 
condition, and that she had requested him to inform 
me, that if I desired to learn certain facts concern- 
ing myself, that she had always kept a secret from 
me, I must come immediately, while she had yet 
the strength to reveal them to me. To this was 
added Mr. Sinclair’s own entreaties to come; as, 
in his opinion, the certain facts ” which my mother 
wished to make known to me, were of a financial 
nature, and of the greatest importance to me. 

To my astonishment at the contents of tiiis letter, 
and to my desire to know what my mother had to 
impart to me, was added a still heavier weight to 
my foreboding, that — notwithstanding Georgine’s 
often, and always reassuring letters, informing me 
of her safe arrival, of her continued excellent 
health, of her always tender affection for me; 
above all, of the effectual abandonment of the sad- 
ness that had troubled her, and of the many enjoy- 
ments of her surrounding life — had never ceased 
to oppress me by day, and to visit me at night in 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


115 


frightful dreams that had always the same mourn- 
ful ending, the same di’eadful vision for me — 
Georgine^s face as white as the face of the dead ; 
Georgine^s eyes, staring and terrified, fixed upon 
me ; Georgine herself fading further and further 
from my outstretched arms, and leaving me to a 
frightful darkness and a frightful solitude. And — 
think of it as you may, laugh at it, if you will — 
went to the town I had left years ago, I went to her 
whom I had known as my mother, with the ir resisti- 
ble conviction, that, without being able to avoid it, 
I was hastening the approach of a horrible 
experience. 

I found my mother suffering from an incurable 
malady. She received me as though I had parted 
from her hours before, instead of years. Neither 
my long absence, nor her suffering, nor the near 
and certain approach of death, had conquered, nor 
even softened, the implacable hatred of this strange 
woman for me. The wretched hovel that I had fled 
from in disgust, had grov/n more wi*etched in the 
intervening years- — ^with the exception of the room 
where my mother lay. The peculiar natui’e of her 
disease, and her intense suffering, had compelled 
her to part with enough of her hoarded money to 
make this one room habitable, and to furjiish her- 
self with the necessaries of life, and with an 


116 'THE DEVIL AND I. 

attendant, who occupied at night the same room 
with her. 

Feeling sure, at the first sight of my mother, that 
whatever was the nature of the revelation she had 
decided to make to me, her decision had been the 
result of necessity, or of some purpose yet unknown 
to me, and not because of any suddenly conceived 
sentiment of kindness towards me, or of remorse for 
her treatment of me. Feeling sure of this, I did 
not consider it my duty to domicile myself in the 
miserable habitation of my mother, during my stay 
in the town, — which I determined should be as 
brief as possible — ^but I secured comfortable lodg- 
ing elsewhere. This arrangement, I observed, was 
as satisfactory to my mother as to me. She 
evidently did not wish to be the cause of my remain- 
ing in the town longer than was absolutely neces- 
sary j for although I arrived in the evening, 
she appointed an early hour the following day to 
impart to me the information which we both under- 
stood to be the object of my coming to her. 

I was at her bedside at the hour designated ; and 
my mother, after looking at me long and search- 
ingly, with a sullen expression of disapprobation 
in her fake, said abruptly, in the sharp, choloric 
tone that had always characterized her speech to 
me, and which expressed at once her hatred and her 
toleration of me, — 


'THE DEVIL AND L 


117 


“ Yes, as I have often told you, you are like your 
father 5 like him in temperament — as self-willed, 
and proud. But you do not resemhle him in the 
face : No — ^you a re the exact image of your 
mother.’’ 

What ! I look like you ? I, the image of you ? ’’ 
I interrupted, incredulously and indignantly; for 
had 1 not always remarked, and secretly rejoiced 
at it, the total absence of any resemblance in my- 
self to my mother. 

Do not interrupt me ! ” she said, severely. No 
matter what you may think, do not again interrupt 
me. I have no strength to prolong the story with 
unnecessary explanations that your questioning will 
require ; and I do not want to hear your voice. I 
am not your mother, 

This abrupt and astounding announcement 
brought me to my feet with an exclamation of 
amazement — ^which was promptly silenced by an 
angry gestui*e from the woman. 

‘‘ I repeat it, I am not your mother. Your father 
was Sir Keginald Trevalyn. Your mother was 
Lady Ellinore. My father was game-keeper to Sir. 
Keginald’s father. You may not believe it, but I 
was handsome in those days ; handsome enough,” 
she added with intense bitterness, ^^for young 
Eeginald — who was only Mister Eeginald then — 


118 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


to woo with smiles and honied words, and after- 
wards to deceive, to ruin, to abandon. I gave him 
all I had to give — ^myself and my honor. But a 
game-keeper’s daughter is the same as nobody ; a 
game-keeper’s daughter has no honor, and no 
heart,” she continued, in the ^me bitter tone. 
‘^Even after our baby was born, he came to the 
lodge every day. He was as proud then, as I was, 
of the handsome boy. It was born with its father’s 
mark, too— a red cross on the breast, close to the 
neck. Eeginald’s mother, soon after the birth of her 
son, had added to the curious freak of nature, a 
tiny anchor in India ink. Eeginald, pleased with 
this fancy of his mother, marked also, with 
Ills own hand, a similar anchor, below the red 
cross, on the breast of our boy. ^ There ! ’ he said, 
when he had finished, and in kissing his boy and me, 
‘ Nature has given him the cross of his father, and 
I have given him the anchor. He is marked for my 
very own, and wherever you may hide him, I shall 
find him and claim him as mine.’ So you see, he^ 
was not ashamed then of his boy ; and he was good 
to me.” 

The woman had said these last words dreamily, 
and heir voice had lost its hardness. But only for a 
moment ; and it was with intensified bitterness that 
she continued, — 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


119 


“ Curses on the aristocrat ! — for that is what the 
father of mj hoy became when, at his father’s death, 
he became Sir Eeginald. Curses on the fair, proud 
Ellinore ! — whose beauty turned the head, and stole 
the heart, of the man who had sworn to me that he 
w’ould never wed, but that he would come in secret 
to see us ; that he would always love us, and be true 
to us — my boy and me. Curses on the pride that 
drove me and my child — as far as the money and the 

influence of Sir Reginald could banish us ! ” 

Here was a long pause, the stillness of which I 
did not think it wise to interrupt. Then, suddenly, 
and with a gleam of fury in her eyes, that were not 
looking at me, but beyond me — as though the scene, 
that her memory and her imagination brought viv- 
idly before her, was again being enacted — the 
strange creature, apparently unconscious of my 
presence, resumed her recital. 

He banished us — ^liis boy and me. He was rich 
and powerful, we were poor and dependent. So long 
as he loved me, so long as he was kind to our boy, I 
was his slave, and thought only of pleasing him. 
When he turned from me, when he abandoned his 
boy, I became a demon, and I thought only of 
•revenge. He drove us away ,* but he did not know, 
that starving, and cold, and wretched, I stole back 
often and often to watch him through the window, 


120 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


warmed and fed, loving and beloved, until my mad- 
dened sense was left but one desire — ^to rob liim of 
his happiness, as he robbed me of mine; to leave 
him only pain — all that he had left me; to see him 
suffering in the loss of all he loved, the agony that 
I suffered when he took his love from me ; to take 
from him, as he had taken from me, all hope of hap^ 
piness, all power of being glad. 

She died, the lady Ellinore, no one knew how — ^but 
I. And in the madness of Sir Eeginald’s pain, the 
great house had no master. The servants heard 
strange noises; the ghost of Lady EUinore, they 
said, went moaning round the house. Poor souls ! 
how easy it was to frighten them! I stood quite 
close to one, who swore my wild black eyes, and wan,’ 
sad face were like the soft blue eyes, and fair, sweet 
face of Lady Ellinore. The blue eyed babe, so like 
its mother, that was left to comfort yet Sir Regi- 
nald, was stolen from him. That day the frighb 
ened household fled; the house itself was called 
accursed, and had no other tenants than the rooks 
and swallows, and the ghost of Lady Ellinore — 

Here was another pause, during which the woman 
seemed still unconscious of my presence; so long 
unconscious, that I became alarmed. What if she 
should die before I knew all? As the story had 
progressed, a feeling of horror at what had been 


THE DEVIL i^NDT. 


a2i: 

■ revealed to me, at what might yet be revealed to mej 
took possession of me ; this, with the fear that froin 
a sudden caprice of the strange, woman, or from; 
some unlooked for intervention, I should be pre- 
vented from hearing all there was to know, all that 
I ought to know, had held me dumb throughout the 
whole of the strange recital ; but now, in my desire 
to know everything, I succeeded in mastering myself 
to a degree to ask in a quiet, ordinary tone of 
voice, — 

“And Sir Keginald, my father, what became of 
him ? ’’ 

The quietness of my manner, the naturalness of 
my question, did not arouse her sufficiently to per- 
mit her to consider my interruption, and she 
answered as quietly, — 

“He died in a madhouse/^ 

“ And your child, your boy and Eeginald’s — what 
became of him ? I asked, still quietly, but with a 
curious suspicion in my mind, — 

“My boy, — My boy, — she repeated, looking at 
me savagely ; then with a horrible laugh that made 
me shiver, she added, — “He died too.’^ 

This reply effectually banished the curious sus- 
picion from my mind, and the woman, while makings 
it, was not only aroused to a full consciousness of 
my presence, but to the full sense of her vindictive- 


122 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


ness towards me; and with, a maniacal exultation 
in her voice and gestures, she exclaimed, — 

He died, my boy, he died ! You are all that is 
left — ^you, whom I hate ! You who would have been 
the heiress to a great fortune and a proud name ! 
But you will never be known, now, as the daughter 
of Sir Eeginald Trevalyn ! The Trevalyns are all 
gone — ^all dead! Lady Ellinore, too, was an only 
child, and there are none of her family left — not 
one 1 The far off kinsman of Sir Eeginald would 
treat you as an impostor. No one in England would 
believe the story as I have told it to you. They 
would all say it was the tale of a crazy woman ; and 
it would take a lifetime to prove your identity. 
Yes, you are only the ‘ miser’s daughter — ’ you will 
always be known as such ! You have been brought 
up in all the wretchedness of a miser’s home, believ- 
ing yourself to be, and believed to be, a child of 
shame — you, the daughter of the proud Sir Eeginald, 
who despised me and mine ! This is why I have 
degraded myself, this is why I have sought to be 
despised, this is why I have lived in misery — that 
you might be despised, that you might share my mis- 
ery ! And tell me, tell me — have I not had my 
revenge? But even when — ha, ha! — even when I 
shall be in my grave, even then, my revenge will go 
on — while Marcus Pancho lives, it will go on ! Mar- 


' THE DEVIL AND 1. 


123 


cus is good to me — almost as good/^ she added with 
a strange look at me — as my own boy would have 
been.” 

Ellinore,” she said, after a pause, do you know 
why I have told all this to you ? It is — ^besides the 
enjoyment of seeing you suffer for what might 
have been, and for what now can never be — ^that 
I may be sure that you will never be enriched by 
my money. I know your pride — the pride of the 
Trevalyns — and that, now you know you are not 
my child, you will not want my money. You will 
be too proud to contest the will that leaves every- 
thing to Marcus Pancho. I love Marcus, I have 
always loved him ; because he is like what I fancy 
*ny boy would have been — dark, and handsome, and 
hating you. Even if no one else should beUeve 
all that 1 have told you, and although they will tell 
you I am crazy, you will know that I am not, and you 
will feel that what I have told you is true. You 
will feel it when you look at your own face in look- 
ing upon the face of your. mother.” 

And simultaneously with these words, she took 
a locket from under her pillow — ^an exquisite locket, 
a costly one — ^and opening it, showed me the face 
of a woman about my own ago. But that I had 
never had a picture of any kind taken of myself, 

I should have believed that I was look^g at a fault- 


124 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


less portrait Of myself, copied, unknown to me,’ 
from another. The fairness of the face, the sombre 
blackness of the hair ; the eyes, the mouth, every 
feature was like mine. Only, there was a joyous 
brightness in the depth of the eyes, that seemed 
to smile at me, that had never shone in the sad blue 
of my own. 

Long, and with tear-dimmed eyes, I gazed upon 
the proud young face, feeling that henceforth I 
should love my own face as I had never done, 
because I saw in it my mother’s ; and that I should 
love my life as I had never done, because it had 
been first that mother’s. And clasping the delicate 
chain of the locket about my neck, I felt that I would 
sooner part with life itself, than part with this, the 
only proof tliat I was not the daughter, not any- 
thing of that vile woman, who, having done all the 
evil for me that she herself could do, would leave 
no evil yet to be done by another, that could undo 
the good her latest words had done — ^the words that 
took from me the right to call myself her child, 
the right to use her gold, and gave to me the right 
to think of her, whose pictured face I should hence- 
forth wear upon my heart, as my own loving 
another. 

I had no doubt in my own mind as to the truth 
of the strange story. As the woman had said — 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


125 


I felt it to be true. And, although I thought it 
might be also as she had said, that no one in the 
town would believe it, and that it would be difficult,' 
perhaps impossible, to establish my rights in Eng- 
land j and although I thought it injudicious to make 
any efforts to do so, that my then limited means 
would not permit me to continue with the zeal and 
alacrity to insure their success ; yet, nothing in the 
present prevented me from determining to make, 
at a future time that would be more propitious, 
a thorough and satisfactory investigation. To ren- 
der this possible — ^that is, to make the revelation 
of the dying woman of legal worth to me — it was 
necessary to have a reiteration of it before legal 
witnesses; this, with the occurrence of other and 
unlooked for contingencies, prolonged my stay for 
some days after the period that I had fixed upon 
for my departure! and as soon as the required 
part of the statehient was recorded in a proper man- 
ner — although both the lawyer and Mr. Sinclair,' 
who were the witnesses, doubted its reliableness — 
I made preparations to depart: and it was while 
I was making these preparations — rejoicing that 
the evil I imagined was about to happen, had not 
happened — ^that I made a discovery that greatly 
troubled me. 

The day after my arrival in the town, I had re- 


126 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


ceived a letter from Georgine, containing an excel- ' 
lent photograph of herself. The letter was fuU of 
her joyous self. It was the happiest description 
of the places she had been, and of the people she 
had met ; concluding with the assurance of a hoped 
for speedy return to me, and the resolve never again 
to go any where without me ; and with the repeti- 
tion — of what had been in each of her previous let- 
ters — of her unchanging devotion to me; of her 
aunt’s and her own determination to protect me 
against the persecutions and the villainy of Marcus 
Pancho — ^the foe that in being mine, was theirs toQ, 
and entitled to their antagonism and to their aver- 
sion, as well as to mine — ^and entreating me to rely 
on their aid and their affection sufficiently to have 
no fears for the future. 

This letter and the photograph I had placed in 
a box in my trunk; and in arranging my effects 
in the latter, I f ound, to my surprise, that the let- 
ter and the photograph were missing. As I was 
to leave that evening, I made as thorough an inves- 
tigation as I could make, during the few hours that 
remained to me. But no one had been seen to enter 
my room, except the servant — ^who was entirely 
trustworthy; besides, as nothing else had been 
taken, either from my trunk or from my room, it 
was evident that a particular interest in the letter 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


127 


and photograph, had alone impelled the singular 
theft. This fact was more alarming to me, because 
I had had all the time the impression that the sor- 
row I feared was to come in the near future for me, 
would be the result of a misfortune to Georgine. 
It was only her letter and her photograph that had 
been taken from me; but they were something of 
her, something already gone, gone in a mysterious 
manner — ^and from that time, the foreboding, that 
had for a brief period dissipated itself, returned, 
and had a still more depressing effect upon me. 

There was nothing in the letters — that, after my 
return to my home and duties, I received without 
interruption from Georgine — ^to encourage my fears 
for her future. They were brimming over with 
expressions that could only be prompted by a most 
joyous mind and heart, and the result of the most 
satisfying experiences. But there was a change ; a 
change that had added to the already unalloyed 
happiness of her existence, a deeper, sweeter, more 
womanly — and I shuddered at the thought that it 
might be a more perilous — ^happiness. 

Georgine was loving, and was believing herself 
beloved. Beloved, as she enthusiastically declared^ 
by the only man, besides her brother, whom she had 
ever known to possess the charms^ of person, and 
^e qualities of mind and heart with which she 


128 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


Lad invested her ideal lover and husband, and which 
were essential that the man should possess, to be 
worthy of the respect and the love she had in 
reserve to offer him. Her letters were continued 
dissertations upon this one theme: of her seeing 
him for the first time, while she was promenading 
with her aunt; of his being invited to the house 
where she visited, by the son of the hostess — ^with 
whom (the son) the acquaintance had been acci- 
dental — and of his introduction to her there; of 
the admiration and esteem with which the entire 
household, including her aunt, regarded him; of 
her own intimacy with him, approved of by her 
aunt, which had been the result of a mutual and 
instantaneous liking at the first sight of each other ; 
of the charm of his manner, of his kindness, of his 
devotion to her — ^all this had been told and retold, 
in each letter, and in as many varied forms as her 
enthusiasm and the power of her imagination would 
permit her to portray. 

I could see that she was loving this man with 
her whole soul, and with all the abandonment that 
her own and her aunt’s confidence in his worth 
inspired. I could see, too, that her heart was satis- 
fied with its loving and its love. Why then was I 
not happy? Why should I not be even happier 
than I had ever been — ^knowing that she was hap: 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


129 


pier than she had ever been ? Without doubt she 
would marry this Oscar Lyndhurs't; she would 
belong to him, she would go wherever he would 
go ; her life would be united to his life. I should 
not be able to go with her, 1 should no longer be, as 
she believed I would be, a necessary part of her 
life. Our plans for the future, that we had long 
ago arranged, and so often talked about, could not 
now be carried out ,• or, at best, they would be sub- 
jected to the will of her husband, and to the cir- 
cumstances that her alliance to him would bring 
about. But all this was natural ; all this, if I had 
not thought of it, was to be thought of, was to be 
expected. 

Was I then selfish, was I then unhappy only 
because she had found another being that she loved 
more than she loved me ? If my love for her was 
as noble and disinterested as I had always believed 
it to be, could I be so unhappy for no other cause 
than the contemplation of a destiny, that must be 
for her, if it be all that she believed it to be, as it 
is for every good woman — ^her best good? I could 
not then convince myself that I was thus sSLfish — 
I know now that 1 was not. But the truth was,' 
that I could not feel the security in her future^ 
with the man she loved, that she and her aunt, and 
evidently others about her, felt. Besides, there 


130 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


was present with me the gloom of a threatening cal- 
amity ; and still, night after night, I saw GeorgineJ 
always the same — ^pale, and silent, with horror in 
her staring eyes, and fading from me. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


1311 


CHAPTEE X: 

The -winter weeks that — ^before Mr. LyndhiiFst* 
bame — Georgine had joyously announced were to be 
the limit of our separation, lengthened into months ; 
and I knew that it was the power and the charm of 
the man she loved, that was keeping Georgine 
from me. Business had retained Mr. Lyndhurst in 
Montreal ; for tlie same reason they lingered through 
the spring months in New York — ^where they had 
stopped on their way home. They were always 
together — Mrs. Edmonds and the affianced lovers ; 
for the engagement had already been made known, 
and the marriage was to take place the following 
Autumn. It was only when Lyndhurst announced 
the positive necessity of his quitting them for a 
time, to rejoin them later, that Georgine and her 
aunt came home. 

How beautiful she was! How more than ever, 
beautiful ! Never have I seen a being so perfectly,' 
so confidently happy ! Hers was a bliss yet added 
to the unclouded happiness that had always been 
her life. How greatly I had wronged her, in think- 
ing she had loved me less ! Dear heart — she loved 
me more ! And when I told her all that I had feared, 


132 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


tears came into her eyes ; tears, not of pain — she 
was too happy for that — ^but tears that expressed 
nothing except the fulness of her desire to make me 
know, to make me feel, the increased tenderness of 
her affection for me. 

Oh, my sweet Ellinore ! Do you think because 
I have been so long away from you, and because I 
have talked only of Oscar, that I have been for- 
getting you ? Ah, dear, if ever you love as I love 
Oscar, you will understand why, in my loving of 
him, I love you more than I have ever loved you. It 
is simply that I know more of love, that I know bet- 
ter how to love. If you would only believe how good 
and kind he is ! How thoughtful and tender he is, not 
only for me, but for all whom I love ! If you could 
have seen him when I talked about you ; when I told 
him of your past life, and aU about that dreadfully 
wicked Marcus Pancho ; and of my hatred of him , 
for your sake ; and of my determination and that of 
my aunt to protect you from his persecutions and 
his presence, and never to permit you to be 
parted from us; if you could have seen his eyes 
flash, and his cheeks color with emotion, as I saw 
them do when I told him all this, and of my great 
affection for you, — ^you would be convinced, as I am, 
that you have found in my lover another friend; 
and that you will find in him, as my husband, another 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


133 


protector ; and that in securing my happiness with 
him, I shall be securing yours.” 

At another time she said, — 

‘^Little queen Ellinore, you are never to leave 
us — auntie, Oscar and me. We have planned 
everything, Oscar and I. Oscar is very rich; so 
rich, that he declares we shall have no need of my 
money. He was not satisfied till he had proved this 
fact to my aunt. I was indignant at the thought of 
it, but auntie said he had only done what was his 
duty to do, and that she esteemed him yet more for 
his promptness in doing it unasked: I, you know — 
besides the big, big fortune I inherited, equally with 
my brother, from my parents — have a small 
fortune that was left to me, unconditionally, by an 
aunt of my father’s. This little fortune I am going 
to secure to you— I have already secured it to you. 
There ! do not say a word,” she exclaimed, putting 
her hands over my mouth to silence my protesta- 
tions, and kissing my eyes that had filled with tears, 
at this proof of her unselfish and generous devotion. 
“If you refuse to accept this practical proof of my 
affection for you, Ellinore, I shall know that you 
are too proud to owe anything to me ; and that in 
feeling towards me as you do towards others, you 
do not love me as I love you ; and I shall be very 
unhappy. This little fortune” she continued joy: 


134 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


ously, interpreting my silence as an acceptance of 
lier generous gift — although mentally I had already 
decided never to touch the principal, and to use the 
interest only as a loan to aid my efforts to secure 
a recognition of my rights in England ; this little 
fortune I have secured to you, so that whether I 
live or die, the daughter of Sir Keginald Trevalyn 
will no longer be obliged to do any thing she will 
not wish to do. Auntie also is too rich to live 
happily alone; she will never be able to exist 
contentedly away from me ; and I can not think of 
living, even with Oscar, away from you. So this 
is what we are going to do — auntie and you, and 
Oscar and I — ^when I am Oscar’s wife: we are 
going to travel every where, before we permanently 
settle either here or in England. But first, we are 
going to England to put your case into the hands 
of a competent lawyer, and, if possible, establish 
your rights to the name and the estate of your 
father. This, auntie and I have decided, since our 
return, to do; and — as you have forbidden me to 
say anything to any one about the strange story 
told to you by ‘ the miser ’ — of course Oscar knows 
nothing about that part of your history ; but if he 
knew, he would-be as enthusiastic, I am sure, as we 
are, to accompHsh all that we expect to accomplish 
for you. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


135 


“And now for our plans for the summer! The' 
first of June, we — ^that is auntie, and you and I — 
are going out to cousin Ned's ranch in the Eocky 
Mountains. Ned has implored auntie for the last 
three years to come. He says he has made special 
preparations to^ receive us ; and that his cabin is 
gorgeous in savage luxury, and that it does not lack 
in the necessary comforts of civilization. Now I 
am wild to go ; first, because it will be so different 
frnm the experience of every summer at the fashion- 
able resorts ; secondly, because I am curious to see 
what the attractions are, in this ranch-life, that can 
more than compensate — seeing he persists in exil- 
ing himself thus — for the advantages, the luxuries, 
the associations, that home and social life have to 
offer to a man so refined in his tastes and his habits 
as is my cousin Ned. Then, too, Oscar and 1 shall 
see more of each other in the seclusion of this 
ranch-life, than at the crowded resorts. It is there, 
little queen ElHnore, that you will first see Oscar ; 
and I wish you were as desirous to meet him as hd 
is to meet you. If I were not loving you more than 
I love myself, I should be jealous of the interest he 
takes in all that concerns you 5 but he knows weU, 
that to love you, as my friend, is to make himself 
still more worthy of my love. 

“ Oh, my dear friend ! ” she cried impulsively^ 


136 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


you wiU never be able to do an^dhing else than love 
Oscar — he is so, so handsome ! Never have I seen 
any one, not even my brother Courtney, so hand- 
some ! Do you know, dear, there is something about 
his face that reminds me of you? I can not tell 
whether it is the expression about the mouth, or in 
the eyes — indeed, if it be either. It is an indefinable 
resemblance, but it is something that I see every 
time I look upon his face — something that fasci- 
nates. There ! I have never told you what his face 
is like ; and I am not going to tell you now. I want 
you to be surprised. I want you to be impressed 
as he shall appear first to you, without the aid of a 
preparatory portrait of him from me. Now', daughter 
of Sh Eeginald and Lady Ellinore,” she concluded, 
with a smile, ^^we have nothing to do but to get 
ourselves ready for this invasion upon the bacheloV 
home of cousin Ned ; and, in the meantime, I want 
you to be happy in the present, and to trust the 
happiness of your future to me, as I trust the 
happiness of mine to Oscar.’’ 

It was impossible to resist the infiuence of this 
joyous, light-hearted girl ; and if I was not as happy 
as I secretly desired to be, nor as sanguine as Georg- 
ine and her aunt of the brilliant future that seemed 
to be assured to her, I was certainly much happier 
than I had been before Georgine’s return ; and I 


a HE DEVIL AND I. 


137 


tried to persuade myself that my gloomy impres-j 
sions and my fears, had been the effect of my loneli; 
ness and my too active imagination. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


138 


CHAPTEE XI. 

Ned Edmonds was the only child of Mrs. Edmonds^ 
Affectionate in his disposition, frank in his temper- 
ament, generous and noble hearted ; enjoying 
immense social advantages ; fitted by his natural 
endowments, and a thorough education, to attain a 
prominent position, and to secure an enviable suc- 
cess, either as a public leader or as a private citizen ; 
he astonished his friends, as well as his mother, by 
refusing to be anything that would require the per- 
manent establishing of himself among tliem ; and, 
after wandering for years from country to country, 
and from place to place, until he had satisfactorily 
traversed every habitable part of the globe, he 
returned unexpectedly, after a long absence, to 
announce his intention — ^in order to reconcile his 
inclination to Bohemianism with his desire to be 
more frequently with his mother — ^to settle on a 
ranch in the far West, where he could enjoy the 
freedom of thought and of movement, of will 
and of action, that was a necessity of his nature to 
enjoy ; as well as, from time to time, the sweets of 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


139 


home life and of filial affection, that the impulses 
of his loving heart, and the memories of his boy- 
hood, gave him always a longing to enjoy. 

Convinced, by a long experience, that her son • 
would never become the useful citizen she had hoped 
ihe would become, and that his decision not to marry 
was a final one; and beginning to fear he would 
never return from his wanderings ; Mrs. Edmonds 
was even thankful that her son had settled into this 
modified state of savagery — as she designated the 
life and habits of a ranchman. But glad and thank- 
ful as she was, she could not divest herself of a cer- 
tain terror of the native Indian, of dreadful 
beasts, of venomous serpents, of deadly insects, of 
poisonous fiowers, of perils unknown and unseen — 
that were said to abound in the ranch lands of the 
Eocky Mountains, and which were liable at any 
moment to prove fatal to the invaders of its savage 
loneliness. It was owing to this terror — despite 
Ned’s glowing description of the beauty of the place 
— ^that his mother had resisted, for three successive 
summers, his eloquent supplications to herself and 
to Georgine to visit him ; and it was only when 
Georgine had suddenly expressed a great desire to 
go, and when to Ned’s supplications were added 
Georgine’s earnest and oft repeated persuasions, 
that Mrs. Edmonds was at last induced to venture 


140 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


on what she dolefully assured us was likely to be 
our “ last excursion ” 

But Mrs. Edmonds was not more astonished than 
were Georgine and myself, as we entered the 
valley on our approach to Ned’s ranch. Nothing 
could exceed the loveliness and the grandeur of the 
scene that held us mute with wonder and admira- 
tion. The valley — which is about twenty-five miles 
long and one hundred wide — ^lies between two 
ranges of the Eocky Mountains. As far as the eye 
could see, the valley was covered with long waving 
grass that looked like a far stretching drapery of 
softly radiant green, held by invisible hands that 
gently waved it to and fro with the sighing of the 
wind. Vast herds of cattle, that looked like dusky 
specks, were slowly moving onward through the bil- 
lowy green. A limpid stream fiowed from the mount- 
ain side, traversed half way the valley, and continu- 
ing on, looked, in the glow of the setting sun, like a 
luminous and undulating line that reaching on and 
on into the endless green, seemed to fade into the 
far off blue of the horizon. Above, the mountain 
tops were all afiame; and down through the dark- 
ness of wide canyons and huge crevices, the same 
resplendent baptism fell — sometimes on cascades 
that went dancing down the rocky steeps ; some- 
times upon a silent, mighty sweep that f ell to 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


141 


unfathomable depths bebw; and down,’ still down 
the gleaming of the sunset fell, more softly and 
less gloriously on tops of lower, less aspiring trees, 
that through the misty golden light showed green 
and green — such shades of green as never mortal 
artist could conceive, and never painter’s brush 
could reproduce. High over us, but nearer us than 
heaven — since they were far below the loftiest 
mountain peaks that seemed to touch the firmament 
— clouds floated ; clouds of gray, and rose, and gold, 
and violet. Above the clouds, above the gilded 
mountain tops, a sky of blue, of pure, unclouded blue 
— ^this was heaven’s fair canopy for the scene below. 
The scented air around us breathed out the sweets 
of prairie and of mountain flower. The splendor of 
the scene, the quiet of the scene — our souls were 
awed to worshipful silence at the sight of it; our 
hearts were hushed to repose at the peace of it ; and 
we no longer wondered that Ned Edmonds, who had 
seen every vanity under the sun, had turned from the 
prescribed loveliness and freedom of our city homes, 
to the large liberty, the varied loveliness of this nat- 
ural kingdom, wherein he reigned a happy and con- 
tented sovereign. 

Ned had made his first advent into the valley as 
a veritable ranchman, or cattle dealer. At that 
time there was a German settlement on the western 


142 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


side of the valley, and Ned’s extensive ranch was 
established on the eastern side. Two^ years previous 
to our peaceful invasion, Ned, while camping out 
about ten miles from his ranch, near a quarry — 
from which stone had been taken to build the chim- 
neys of the houses that composed the German set- 
tlement — discovered a rock in this quarry that con- 
tained silver ore. On examination, even the chim- 
neys in the houses of the German settlement were 
found to contain this precious metal. The mine 
that Ned had discovered, and of which he became 
the sole owner, proved to be of immense value ; so 
that he was not only a lordly ranchman, but he was 
lord of a large portion of the valley. 

The German settlement, that through his wealth 
and influence had become a large and flourishing 
town, was far enough from Ned’s own habitation 
to insure him an undisturbed enjoyment of all that 
it is presumed he hoped to enjoy as the result of the 
taste and care he bestowed upon it, to say nothing 
of the prodigious amount of money expended in the 
creation of it, and which was really a “tiling of 
beauty, and a joy,” if not “ forever,” so long as he 
chose to enjoy it, and so long as the guests that 
were invited from time to time, to share his hospi- 
tality, were disposed to enjoy it. For if the loveli- 
ness of the valley had astonished us, the unique 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


143 


loveliness of what Ned’s letters had taught us to 
designate as his cabin,” amazed us. 

Besides innumerable out-buildings, that which 
was properly Ned’s domicile, was a long line of 
apartments all on one floor — ^the ground floor. Each 
apartment — consisting of four or more rooms — occu- 
pied the entire wfldth of the building. In the length^ 
these apartments we?re separated, one from another, 
by a solid partition which was provided with a sin- 
gle door that led into a hall, across which was the 
entrance to the following apartment. The apart- 
ments themselves were separated into their sev- 
eral rooms by heavy draperies. The floor of each 
room was made of natural wood highly polished, 
the centre of which was covered with thick, soft 
rugs, brilliant in color and rich in fabric ; or with 
tiger skins and bear skins, and other long, soft hair- 
ed treasures from the backs of wild animals. Tap- 
estry, warm in color and unique in design, coup 
pletely covered the walls, upon which were hung 
or fastened rare paintings, pretty engravings, gems 
in mosaic, carvings in ivory, and all sorts of costly 
trifles and bric-a-brac — from the head of a Madonna 
to an embroidered sandal. The furniture was of 
the same character ; luxurious ottomans and quaint 
divans; curiously carved and superbl^^ cushioned 
chairs, tables and mirrors solidly made yet exqiiis- 


144 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


itely made : these, and every conceivable thing 
that was ornamental and useful, from the refine- 
ments of Europe and the luxurious splendor of 
the Oriental, to the gorgeous fancies of the native 
Indian and the ingenious inventions of our own 
America ; all that could delight one, all that could 
add to one’s comfort — ^all this composed the lordly 
ranch of this lordly ranchman. 

Crossing the hall from our apartment — ^wEicE 
was at the extreme end of the building, and which 
was assigned exclusively to Georgine and myself— 
we entered the library, which on the opposite side 
opened through heavy portieres into a vast and 
luxurious drawing-room ; beyond this, and separated 
from it also by portieres^ was the music-room. Cross- 
ing this, and again a hall, we were at the entrance 
to the apartment of Mrs. Edmonds, which, in its 
turn, led to Ned’s and thence to other apartments 
beyond. 

Mrs. Edmonds was effectually cured of her prej- 
udices and her fears in regard to this “ land of sav- 
ages ” — as she had always designated it — ^as well as 
of her anxiety in regard to Ned. The Bohemian 
that she had deplored, she confessed now to herself, 
and to him, merited only her sincere admiration and 
her sincere praise. That her son having exhausted 
the delights and the torments, the sweet and the 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


145 


bitter of all that which is defined by the word 
worldliness, should seek, and should be contented 
with, the grandeur of the mountains, the repose of 
the valley, and the companionship of the beauti- 
ful about him ; that he was happy with his books 
and his thoughts, and a few invited friends to share 
the enjoyments of his home — ^this was a proof not 
of immorality, but of nobility ; not of a vitiated 
taste, but of a healthful one. He was henceforth 
not to be deplored, but to be envied. All this Mrs. 
Edmonds frankly and generously expressed to Ned, 
with the promise that so long as he chose to live in 
that fashion, with every summer, she should come 
to share with him the enjoyment and the repose 
of his retreat. And Ned, who loved his mother more 
than anything in the world, with something that 
looked like tears shining in his eyes, declared that 
this promise, and her new confidence in him, were 
all that had been lacking to make his happiness 
complete ; and that hereafter, life for them should 
be spent in a mutual confidence in each other, and, 
as much as would be practicable, in the companion- 
ship of each other. 

Georgine was wild with delight. “ Oh, how beaiv 
tif ul it is ! she exclaimed again and again, look- 
ing at the blue sky above, the green valley below, 
and the far-stretching mountains on either sidej 


146 


THE DEVIL AKD I. 


then going in-doors, and from room to room, looking 
at the curious and beautiful things. “To live in 
this wondrously lovely valley, in this uniquely beau- 
tiful home — it is like living in a story book ! I never 
saw anything like it ! And auntie is so happy with 
cousin Ned. And I — oh Ellinore ! when Oscar 
comes, when my love comes, I shall want — of course 
I shall want to stay right here, in this lovely won- 
derland, but I fear I shall be too happy ; so happy, 
that some day, in one of these enchanted nooks, I 
shall find wings, and fiy up, and up, to the far off 
tops of those mountains — ^but, if I had wings, she 
added laughingly, “you know I would fly back 
again. Oh Ellinore, dearest Ellinore ; 'why are you 
the only one in this happy place that is unhappy ? 
For 3^ou are unhappy, although — ^yes, I must say it 
— you have everything to make you happy. Tell 
me what troubles you — ^you must tell me Ellinore ! 
You are keeping something from me — you who have 
often said you would never keep anything a secret 
from me ! And the brown eyes, now serious, were 
looking at me earnestly, waiting for my reply. 

It was true ; even in this paradise of a home, 
this paradise of loving hearts, I was the only un- 
happy one. And it was impossible to wholly con- 
ceal the condition of my mind from Georgine; she 
Vv'as too closely allied to my thoughts and my affec* 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


147 


tions. But it was also impossible to banish entirely 
the forboding, that had not only returned with 
my advent into that valley of repose — ^repose for 
all but me — ^but that had augmented with every 
day that had brought nearer the arrival of Oscar 
Lyndhurst 5 and on that day — ^the evening of which 
he was expected to arrive, it had so completely and 
painfully taken possession of me, that I was posi- 
tively ill. To the fever of dread that was consum- 
ing me, was added an intense desire to conceal the 
real cause of my indisposition from Georgine. But 
looking at her as she sat on a low seat beside the 
divan upon which I was reclining, her cheeks flushed 
with a deep happiness, so radiantly, so bewilder- 
ingly beautiful, the thought that any evil might 
come to dim that happiness, to destroy it, that it 
was even now coming — ^this thought, this fear, over- 
came my already over excited imagination, and in 
answer to her question, and in a voice that was 
uncontrollable in its sobbing and its agitation, I 
cried, — 

Why am I so uhappy ? Oh Georgine, Georgine ! 
It is that I fear I am going to lose you ! That some 
day that man, the man you love so madly, and trust 
so entirely, will take you away from me — so far 
from me that I may never see you again, never be 
with you again ! For who knows but that, despite 


148 


THE PEVIL AND I. 


all you say, he may not like m^, once he has seen 
me, may not wish you to love me ! It would then 
only he a question of giving me up, as your friend, 
or giving him up, as your lover ; and oh, my darling, 
you know that you would leave me to go with him, 
where — ^where — I cannot go ! ” And shivering as 
the vision of my dream, that had become familiar, 
came before me — ^the vision of Georgine, pale, and 
silent, and fading away from me — convulsively I 
clasped her in my arms. 

‘‘Ellinore, my sweet Ellinore ! You terrify me — ^ 
not for myself, but for you! But — ^who knows 
And suddenly a sad, far-away look came into h^ 
eyes. “I too felt strangely sad before I went to 
Montreal — ^before I knew my Oscar. Could that 
sadness have been a presentiment of evil ? My life 
has been so joyous, so unclouded ! But sorrow, they 
say, must come sometime to all of us, to each of us ; 
and, who knows, perhaps in the near future it will 
come to me ? Ah, if it should come through Oscar ! 
If he should cease to love me ! If he should be 
taken, in any way, from me ! Ellinore, that would 
mean death for me.’’ And her eyes had the look of 
terror that I had seen in them only once befoie. 
“But,” and her face brightened again, “that can- 
not be ! My unhappiness can never come through 
Oscar — my Oscar, so good, so tender, so true ! What- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


149 


ever may happen, 1 can be sure of this— -that 
although sorrow may come to me by coming to him,’ 
it will never come to me through him, that is, 
through an action unworthy of him. He could not 
be unkind to me — and it would be cruelly unkind 
to take me from you. You know that I will never 
cease to love you, Ellinore, and that I will never 
be parted from you. You know this without my 
promising it to you ,* but to seal the assurance more 
surely to you, I promise it with this — ^and this — 
and this ! And impulsively she kissed my brow, 
and cheek, and lips. Later, she left me with 
feverish haste, and with a great gladness shining 
in her eyes. Then there was a faint sound of voices 
in glad greetings, a gentle confusion in the house- 
hold — and I knew that he whom Georgine had so 
happily expe:-t?d, he for whom I in dread had 
waited, had come. 

Aly head was stiU aching, and I had announced to 
both Georgine and Mrs. Edmonds, my unwillingness 
to see Mr. Lyndhurst that evening ; so that I 
remained undisturbed until a late hour, when 
Georgine, passing through my room to her own’ 
approached my bed, and murmured softly in my 
ear, — 

Ellinore, oh Ellinore ! He is handsomer than 
ever, he is more loving than ever, and dearer — ^yes. 


150 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


dearer than ever to me ! I am so happy — oh, if 
you only knew how happy ! This was all ; hut the 
lustrous softness of the eyes, in the full moonlight, 
the wondrous rapture upon the face, the trembling 
sweetness of the voice, all this — ^told the story of a 
hliss too deep to tell in words. 

The next morning it was late when I awoke. I 
did not know how late, until Greorgine coming into 
my room, fresh and sweet in a white morning 
gown, announced that breakfast was over, and that 
she and Oscar were going for a ramble. Then, 
shaking her finger playfully at me, she said, — 
Eemember, no more headaches, my EUinore ! 
You positively must be ready to see Oscar on our 
return ; he is getting unmanageable in his impa- 
tience to see you. Ah, sweet,” she added, in a caress- 
ing way, how lovely you are ! How proud I am of 
you, and how much I love you — and Oscar ! ” And 
smiling gayly she kissed me good-bye. 

O Father in Heaven I pity us, Thy children of 
Earth, who, mad with the happiness of a blissful 
present, are all unconscious of the evil whose black 
wungs are already closing over us, to sweep us into 
a perpetual night of sorrow ! 

The acute physical pain of the day before, had 
subsided into a dull throbbing; and the painful, 
nervous agitation, into a corresponding insensibil- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


151 


ity. Powerless to avert tlie dreadful event, of 
whose coming my instinct — or some power unknown 
to me — ^warned me, I was simply mutely and help- 
lessly awaiting it. In the same listless manner I 
made my toilette, and descended, after some hours, 
to the drawing-room, with the intention of proceed- 
ing to the apartment of Mrs. Edmonds ; hut on rap- 
ping at her door and receiving no response, I 
retraced my steps to the library — preferring its 
shaded stillness to that of the sun-lighted drawing- 
room — to await Georgine and her companion, and 
with the vague intention of giving Georgine a glad 
surprise by appearing in the drawing-room, in order 
to receive them, at the moment of their return. Sit- 
ting there for some time with closed eyes, and not 
thinking intently of anything, I was disturbed by 
what I thought was the sound of a light footstep ; 
and observing that the drapery in front of me was 
a^gitated, as at the touch of some one about to enter, 
I hastily drew it aside, and seeing no one, surprised, 
I reclosed it, and turning — was face to face with 
Marcus Pancho, 

It was not my habit to cry aloud, however unex- 
‘ pectedly or unpleasantly intruded upon. The fre- 
quency of such intrusions had taught me, earlj^ in 
life, a rare self-control'. Marcus was aware of this, 
and that he had nothing to fear from a sudden out- 


152 


THE DEVII. AND I. 


ci’y; but he was not prepared for my immediate 
turning from him, without a word, with the inten- 
tion of fleeing from him ; and I had already ad- 
vanced several steps with this purpose, when he pre- 
cipitated himself before me, and grasping me with 
tiger-like fierceness, drew me violently back, while 
he said hurriedly, and in a low tone, that which the 
first dreadful utterance held me horrified, and, for 
the moment, dumb before him, — 

am Oscar I/yndhurst! Do you want to kill 
Georgine ? For it will surely kiU her to let her know, 
in this sudden way, that the man she knows and 
loves as Oscar Lyndhurst, is Marcus Pancho, the 
man you hate — the man she hates, too, for your 
sake ! Fearing this, I have tried, and have at last 
succeeded, to see you first alone. To tell Georgine 
the truth in an abrupt way, would kill her, you know 
it;’’ then seeing my eyes dilate with horror, he 
added — “ would kill her too soon.” 

I felt myself growing mad with horror and a 
deadly hatred of the man. I had no thought of 
doubting the dire statement he had made. I felt 
that it was true. I knew that this was the horrible 
thing that was to come.' 

Fiend incarnate!” I cried. “I thank Heaven 
that has cheated you, at this latest hour, when you 
believe yourself surest of success ! I will unmask 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


153 


now, to my Georgine ! I will show you to her^ 
not in the likeness of a man — which you are not 
— ^but as the devil, that you are ! I will tell her of 
this deadly wrong to her, that added to my wrongs 
for which, for my sake, she hates you now, she yet 
may give you deadly hatred for her own sake ! I 
know my Georgine, and that she will turn from you 

with horror, once she knows you as you are, ” 

And then a thought came to my mind that held 
me mute before the fiend that, smiling, guessed my 
thought. What if Georgine should not believe 
in the wickedness of the man before me, as I 
believed it ? What if his power over her was so great 
that he would be able to persuade her that I was 
mistaken, that I had always been mistaken in my 
estimate of him, and that I had wronged him in 
believing that he had wronged me? Ah, then I 
should lose her — ^as I had all the time feared I should 
do ! Or, what if she would entirely believe me ? 
What if her pure mind should at once perceive, 
as I believed it would, the baseness of the man she 
believed to be so noble and so good ? What if she 
should realize at once, as I believed she would, the 
shame of loving a man like that, and the peril of 
accepting his love — for I had no doubt but that he 
loved her ? And before me came the suffering face 
of my Georgine — ^the face that I had but now seen 


154 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


so T\'ondrous glad. And seeing her thus^ with the 
gladness all gone from her heart, the happiness 
gone from her life ; Georgine stricken with a sor^ 
row, a dreadful, irreparable sorrow, that had been 
prepared for her by the man she loved, the lover 
thr’ough whom she had so confidently believed a 
suffering to her could not come : seeing her thus, I 
knew that the truth would be for her — as she had 
assured me such a dreadful truth would be — ^her 
death. And feeling the hopelessness of doing any- 
thing to avert, or to prevent the evil that was com- 
ing to her, as it had already come to me ; and half 
distraught in the agony of this hopelessness, I fell 
on my knees, and with my hands toward Heaven, 
I cried, — 

God, save my darling! Save her from the 
power of this evil one ! Thou alone art able to 
save ! ” 

EUinore, EUinore ! ’’ (It was the creature against 
whom I was crying to Heaven, that repeated my 
name.) EUinore, I want you to listen to me.’’ 

I did not reply, and his touch was upon my shoul- 
der. At the touch I sprang to my feet, and, with- 
out speaking, my eyes were fixed upon him. I 
seemed to be waiting for what he had to say ; but 
in reality, 1 was hardly conscious of the presence 
of the man. t was as a ^dctim in the hands of the 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


ass; 

slayer ; and while I waited, and he talked, it Yagiiely 
seemed to me I yet put off the last, the fatal stroke,’ 
and that yet help might come. 

“EUinore,” he continued in a low, but distinct 
voice, “ you remember that at our parting, when you 
left your home for the first time, I told you in what 
tnanner I regarded you. You refused then, by a 
contemptuous silence, to regard me with affection, 
and to owe to me the enjoyment of your life ; and, 
Ellinore, I swore then, that you should owe to me 
the unhappiness of your life. I hoped to accom- 
plish this most effectually when you would one 
day love — as all women desire to love. Beautiful, 
fascinating, charming, I knew that all men 
would admire you, that many would seek you, 
and that some one, whom you would love, would 
eventually love you — passionately, madly love you. 
To take this love from you, to effectually take it; 
to leave you the pain that is keenest to a woman’s 
heart, to any human heart — this was to be the su- 
preme triumi)h of my revenge. But time passed 
without this opportunity. The only extraordinary 
affection you evinced for any one, was for Mabel 
Livingston. You know what followed. To rob 
you of her confidence and of her affe(^tion, it was 
necessary to rob her of her home and of her repu- 
tation. When she left you, your prosperity left 
you, and your friends deserted you. 


156 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Again you prospered, again you were happy. In 
the enjoyment of your present success, you had 
forgotten the pain and humiliation of the past. I 
was convinced that in the misfortune that I had 
brought upon you, your pride had suffered in the 
loss of your position, more than your heart had 
suffered in the loss of the object of its affection. I 
believed you to be singularly cold, or singularly 
cautious. I was mistaken. You were neither one 
nor the other. You were capable of a profound 
affection, and of a passionate devotion. You had 
not yet found the man who could inspire this loving, 
but you had found the woman who had inspired it. 
It was my fortune, and not your fault, that I discov- 
ered this — for experience had taught you to make a 
secret of your happiness. However, I was too 
deeply interested in you to be ignorant of your move- 
ments. I knew that the letter you had received from 
Mr. Sinclair, would bring you back once more to the 
toAvn from which, hating it, you had fled. I saw 
, you when you came. I was often near you without 
your suspecting it. I was in your room when you 
were not there. Here is the photograph you missed 
from your trunk — ^the photograph of Georgine, the 
woman you love. Here too is the letter, her letter, 
that told me of your extraordinary devotion for 
each other, and of your extraordinary confidence 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


157 


in eacli other ; that told me, too, of a mutual sen- 
timent towards me — of her hatred of me, horn of 
your hatred of me ; of your mutual contempt of all 
that I might have the intention to do, and the assur- 
ances of her protection, and that of her aunt, against 
whatever I might do. 

It was easy to find this friend; easy to he intro- 
duced to her; still easier, as Oscar Lyndhurst, to 
impress her with the excellency of my character — ^ 
as no one had disputed the excellency of my repu- 
tation. You know the rest, and that Georgine loves 
me with all the power of her being to love. But 
you do not know, you do not even suspect, that I 
have won her love wuthout a thought of loving her ; 
that I have appointed the wedding-day without 
either the desire or the intention to marry her ; that 
1 have deceived her, only to deceive you. And I 
have done this, Ellinore, that I may, in striking her, 
strike you ; that in seeing her happiness turned to 
sorrow, I shall see yours turned to sorrow ; that in 
knowing she suffers, I shall know that you suffer. 
And .now that I have told you the truth, you are 
free to tell it to her; hut the blow to her pride, 
that will come with this telling, the blow to her 
heart; the love taken from her life, the gladness 
taken from it, this will be, you know, Ellinore, as 
well as I — ^that it will be her death.’^ 

^ Ellinore ! — ^Ellinore 


158 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Like the faint sighing of my name in the wind, 
came the sweet, far off voice of Georgine. The 
man started at the sound. I heard it a-s in my 
dreams I had so often heard it; and with a stif- 
ling, sickening, paralyzing sense of the horrible, 
and feeling already the chill of death — ^the death 
that was coming to take my darling from me — tried 
to answer, to cry aloud ; but my voice was in loud 
whispers, as pointing to the fiend before me, I 
gasped. 

^^'You ! — ^you would not — murder her? — ^my Geor- 
gine ! — ^my 

There was a sudden and violent parting of the 
drapery that} led into the drawing-room; then a 
strange, gurgling sound, a deadly white face, eyes 
that were already fixed in their look of horror, and 
— ^the outstretched form of Georgine lay before me. 

With a wild, wild shriek, I was kneeling beside 
the still form, kissing the wdiite face, looking at the 
staring eyes of my dead Georgine. This I remem- 
ber — ^this horrible thing that I shall remember as 
long as I live ; and then came a blank in my exist- 
ence — the blank of an unknowing and an unthinking 
life. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


159 


.PART II. 


'CHAPTEE I. 

Months followed of a life of which I have no 
remembrance that I lived. No efforts of long wait- 
ing and much loving ones, can bring to me the mem- 
ory of a single sound, a single sight, from that which 
was to me a deep, perpetual silence, and the dark- 
ness of a long, long night. Then came a time when 
(my poor living began vaguely to feel life ; when it 
became a dream within a dream. For I remember 
it as I remember other dreams ; and were it not that 
others say it is all true, and had I not had the sweet- 
est vision of those dreamy days still mine, a living, 
loving presence, in the after wakening days, I should 
even now believe it was a dream. 

What were those days of troubled, feeble grow- 
ing consciousness, but days of changeful phantasms 
that I watched in dreamy wonder come and go ! The 
ships on which we sailed, the countries we trav- 
ersed, the cities where we dwelt,* the sea of faces 
ever changing, ever new — ^all these, were pictures 
of an ever shifting scene, each vanishing to leave 
no trace but memory, faint, bewildering, fugitive, 
to tell that it had been. 


160 THE DEVIL AND I. 

But there were two visions that staid and staid. 
One was a tender, mother face, that never left me, 
and that from habit I had learned by heart, and that 
from habit I had come to know was good, and that it 
staid for my own sake ; the other was a face that my | 
stupid seeing did not then know was one^ but some- 
thing fair and kind that beamed upon me from a 
softly golden radiance set about it like a crown. 

Oh, shining, golden hair ! Oh, face so fair and 
sweet ! Oh vision, God given, that made my feeble 
living glad, without my knowing that gladness was 
a thing to feel ! By it I counted, in my poor, dumb 
way, how came the day, and how the night — ^its com- 
ing was my day j and when the vision vanished, it 
was night. It was my sun, around which my small 
consciousness revolved ; and while it shone on me, 
I must have done the things that pleased it best; 
for there was more of that sweet something in the 
kindness that could make me glad. Sometimes this 
vision had a voice ; it said — ^ah me ! I know not 
what it said : I only heard the voice, so low, and 
sweet, it pleased me while it troubled me. I think 
I vaguely wished that I could think where I had 
heard it, in some other life. This vision was my 
life; its giving made my little world of drowsy 
thoughts; thoughts of such vague sweetness that 
to close my eyes, even now, and think of them, is to 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


161 


believe mjself again rocked to tlie sweetness of that 
slumber, and soothed by the enchantment of its 
dreams. 

And then my dream life ended. I awoke; 
awoke first to painful consciousness, as though the 
dreadful thing, that thirteen months before had 
struck all conscious life from me, liad just then been. 
There in that far off valley home — Ned’s home — 
within the shaded library, I stood. And there was 
Marcus Pancho — dark, and terrible. And there — 
oh heaven I the curtains parted, and I saw the white, 
scared face, tlie staring eyes, and then, — the fallen, 
lifeless form of my Georgine; and with a mighty 
cry I threw my frenzied self upon what 1 believed 
to be the precious dead. And then a woman^s ten- 
der voice spoke soothingly to me ; and arms, 
stronger than a woman’s", bore me from the dread- 
(ful sight to the quiet of a room ; something was 
held close to my lips, which, when my will strove 
to resist, the woman’s tender voice soothed to obe- 
dience. And then sleep came — Si dreamless sleep 
that gave me back, even while I slept, my healthful 
life again. Waking, my eyes looked first upon the 
sweet and anxious face of Mrs. Edmunds, that was 
bending close to mine. My hands w^ere clasped 
within her own. She did not speak, but looked upon 
me through her tears ; glad tears, for my sake — ^biz6 


1G2 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


which. I believed were like mine, sorrow’s tears, and 
in my pity I too was dumb. 

Without an effort I took up my new and con- 
scious life from where it had had its strange and 
mournful end. With keenest anguish my awakened 
mind lingered upon the scene that had left me liv- 
ing, and my darling dead. I lay within my own 
familiar room. Her room I could not see ; the drap- 
ery — quite thrown back in other days, that we 
hiight make of our two rooms one — ^V'Us now close 
drawn. Alas ! I knew the meaning. It was that 
never more within that room, in any room, nor any- 
where upon tills beauteous earth, would come again 
my darling, my Georgine. And sobbing sobs that 
made my heart grow sick, I started up. 

Do not go, dear Ellinore, — not yet ! ” The voice 
was gentle, but the hand was firm that forced my 
head again upon the pillow. 

Let me go ! ” I cried, oh, let me go, to stay beside 
her ! Alas ! it is but a little while that I may stay ! ” 
^^Poor Ellinore! You have been ill — for many 
days you have been ill ; and, — She paused, to see 
if I would know the rest that she would say. 

“You mean,” I cried with faltering voice and 
quivering lips, “ that I can not see her, can not go 
to her — ^that she is no more here to see ! That while 
I was ill you took her away ! That you — ^you 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


1G3 


^^That we have laid her in Die grave.” Sadly 
these words my lips refused to say, fell on my ear. 
“Not here,” she added; “no, we bore her to her 
home. You remember, Ellinore, the little plot of 
ground she loved so well; and that, looking at it 
once with you, she chose for her own ? She sleeps 
there, Ellinore.” 

Then I, with wonder looking from my eyes, — 
“How many days have I been ill, that this could 
be and I not know that it has been ? ” 

“ Oh, many days, sweet Ellinore, and weeks, and 
months ; a year, and yet a month ! ” 

Then springing from the bed to where a full 
length mirror gave me back a rounded, healthful 
likeness of myself, I cried, the wonder gi’owing, — 
“How have I been ill, to have been so long ill, 
and yet to look like this ? It seems but yesterday, 
but now, that here, in this same home, within the 
shaded room beyond this room, I stood and looked 
upon the awful sight; and this — ^yes, this is the 
same gown I wore — ” And at the memory of that 
dreadful time I paused, then, shuddering, added, — 
“You came too, when all was over — jou and Ned; 
as in a dream I saw you. It was your voice that 
tried to soothe me, and it was Ned that lifted me 
from where I frenzied lay beside the dead, and bore 
me here within this room, upon tins bed ; and you and 


164 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


lie it was that drugged me to a sleep. You see I 
know it all, quite to the moment when I fell asleep. 
A year, and yet a month, you say ? — 

Again I paused, while a curious thought flashed 
through my mind, of the malady that for years had 
played me such strange tricks. If I had lived for 
hours, not knowing that I lived, might not the same 
strange life go on for months and years ? I had read 
of beings who had lived like this, had heard of some 
who had thus lived . While I was thinking thus,no 
word came from her, who patient waited, to break 
the silence of my thoughts. She was too wise to 
throw at once the radiance of full meaning upon the 
darkness of the way from which I was, of my own 
self, then groping slowly out. But I waited, from 
instinct, or perhaps from natural caution, to hear 
first all that she had yet to say ; and to her ques- 
tioning eyes I made no answer, but to repeat dream- 
ily, as though I had been thinking of no other 
thing,— 

A year, and yet a month ! — ^It is a long, long time 
to live, and not know one has lived ! A year and yet 
a month ! — ^It is a long, long time to sleep ! ’’ 

“And so it is, dear Ellinore, a long, long time to 
sleep : so long, we feared that you would never 
wake. But tell me, in that sleep had you no 
dreams — dreams of some faces that were ever near 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


165 


you, and that looked lovingly upon you?^^ And 
waiting for my answer, her eyes looked closely and 
curiously into mine. 

Thus, called to my mind, the visions of my dream- 
ing life came back. Two faces staid with met — as 
I recalled then to have seen them, in my poor dumb 
life, stay. And one — ^the patient, mother face, the 
face that from habit I had learned by heart — had 
no need to seek; and turning to the dear, dear 
woman by m^^ side, I kissed her face, and saying, — 

This is one,” I kissed it yet again ; and then I 
added, looking curiously in my turn, — “But, there 
is yet another.” 

To this there was no answer save a little, tender 
smile, that was the sign of some sweet mystery yet 
unknown to me. “ Come ! ” she said, with that 
sweet cheeriness that some souls have, who are so 
good they must be glad, if not for their own sake, 
for some other loving sake. “Come! you have 
played the game of ^ blindman’s buff ’ so long, that 
I am sure you must be tired; and you will never 
know all that in your stumbling you have caught, 
unless we take the bandage from your eyes.” And 
with her arm about me, she drew me to a soft 
divan — ^touching the pillow to her mind — ^while she, 
low seated by my side, began gently to “take the 
bandage from my eyes.” 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


IGG 

The morning that it happened, dear, !Ned and 
I were watching, from a j window in his room, 
Oeorgine and Oscar, — 

At the name I started. The man was Oscar yet 
to her, and jet the lover of Oeorgine ; not Marcus 
Pancho — mj enemy, and the murderer of Oeorgine. 
Quick as a flash this revelation came to me ; and 
with it, too, again the instinct, again the caution, 
to keep within my heart all that I knew ; and with 
some light excuse to her, who at my start had 
paused in alarm, I prayed her to continue. 

^^We were watching Oeorgine and Oscar, who 
were slowly coming down the path. They looked 
so happy, that Ned and I took for our theme their 
happiness. Later, with the thought of going to 
your apartment, and as I turned to leave my son, 
we both heard a loud and dreadful shriek that 
brought us terrifled upon the scene. You took no 
note of us ; but wildly shrieking, kissed flrst, then 
beat upon the dead to call her back to life. We 
saw, with horror, Georgine dead, and you, poor 
soul, distraught. Oscar, with terror and with 
agony, stood like one dumb. When he could speak, 
he said that he and Georgine had found you in the 
library awaiting their return; that after intro- 
ducing him to you, Georgine had left you alone 
w;ith him ; and that later, entering from the draw- 


THE DEVIL AND L 


167 


ing-room — at the very moment of her entrance — 1 
she had fallen, without a word, outstretched before 
you, dead ; that going to her — our dead Georgine — 
you, with a wild shriek, thrust him back. That 
was all he said, and all he knew.’’ 

Here I could keep silent no longer. “ Is this all ? ” 
J said. ^‘Did he tell you nothing more, — noth- 
ing ? ” 

My poor child, how could he tell us more ? There 
was no more to tell. He knew already, as we, Ned 
and I, knew, that our poor Georgine had died as 
her mother died — of heart disease. I always knew, 
but you and Georgine never, that in her living she 
was close to death. With every way I knew to 
keep all sorrow from her life, I tried to fasten life 
to her with happiness. Oscar knew her danger. 

I had told him — ^tliat to the ardor of his loving he 
might add caution. Alas ! he loved too well. She 
was too happy, our Georgine ! For very joy her 
sweet life died. Do you remember her as she looked 
the evening Oscar came? The fever of emotion 
burned too warm upon her cheek, and joy flamed 
too brightly from her eyes. I trembled, even then, 
lest she was too happy. And it is true — she died 
of too much joy. And who knows but that it is bet- 
ter she died thus, than to have lived perhaps for 
sorrow, and to die of it? 


168 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


We took her home, when all was over — ^all that 
yon know nothing of — ^to lay her from our sight 
forever, in this world. Oscar, who was too heart- 
broken to remain where every sight of us reminded 
him of Georgine, went abroad, and then to Egyi^t, 
to India, every where, to divert his thoughts from 
the happiness of the past, that now it could no 
longer be his, the memory of it was unbearable. 
For the same reason he never wrote to us — ^fear- 
ing that we should write of her. 

You, as I have said, knew nothing of the weeks 
of mournful living for the hearts that sorrowed for 
the dead. You spoke not, nor answered when we 
spoke to you. You never smiled, nor yet seemed 
sad. You saw, or seemed to see, only the things 
that were familiar, and of which the use in other 
days had grown a habit. You ate, and drank, and 
slept, from habit and necessity. Oh, how I prayed 
for the wisdom of some science that might wake 
you from the life that was so like death ! But grief 
made me helpless for myself, and helpless then for 
you. My health, that never was robust, gave way ; 
and to months of lingering fever, was added yet 
a long continued nervous malady. It was Ned, good, 
patient Ned, that watched me through days and 
nights of months that seemed unending in their 
weariness. And it was Ned that watched you. 


THE DEVIL AND 1 . 169 

too, througli months of ^ harmless madness — for so. 
the physicians named your malady. 

As soon as my poor tired brain could think, I ' 
thought of you; and called to mind all that you 
had told me of the curious malady that unhappily 
was yours. And then I said, ^Perhaps she is not 
daft, our Ellinore — ^perhaps she is asleep. We 
will go abroad, to Paris, and to the physician famous 
there for his knowledge of such maladies, and 
know the truth ! ’ And then, as if to help me in 
my groping way to walk straight to the truth, I took 
the journal up that held the printed lectures and 
experiments of our own great physician — ^that cu- 
rious man who with a word, or sign, sends individ- 
uals to sleep , and while they are asleep, plays such 
tricks with their dumb obedience to his will, that 
make the staring lookers on believe him a magician ; 
but who, smiling, will tell you it is the malady that 
makes him a magician, and not his will that makes 
the malady. Eeading these lectures, as they were 
printed each day, 1 said, ‘ Of what use is it to go to 
Paris ? We wiU go to New York, and to our own 
physician.’ 

He heard, this good physician, all I had to say; 
then bade you do a host of things— some wise, some 
foolish — which you did, all in the obedient, auto- 
(matic way ip y^hich you had done, for months, the 


170 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


small and necessary things that Ned and I had bid- 
den yon do. OHe asked you questions; then, (and 
perhaps it was through change of scene, that your 
malady had taken this transition) for the first time, 
you spoke. To every question y ou answered prompt^ 
ly — ^the answer that he in his mind had framed for 
you ; an answer to his liking. Then to prove to us 
what a hypnotist may do without knowing that he 
has done anything, he hid some money in a cabinet 
in an adjoining room ; and quick, at his suggestion, 
you believed the room a bank, the cabinet a safe, 
and forthwith committed a theft, with all the cun- 
ning and the caution of a thief. Again, at his dic- 
tation, you wrote out — ^with the severe correctness 
of your neat chirograghy — a slanderous, compro- 
mising charge against the pastor of a certain church, 
and promptly, as you were bidden, signed my 
name. 

^ Enough ! ’ I cried, ^ I believe now all that I 
faintly hoped ! She is not mad, our Ellinore, she is 
asleep ! And now, good doctor, the remedy. You 
who understand thus the strange phenomena of 
this sleep, must know the way to make her wide 
awake.’ 

^ Ah,’ he answered, ^ that I can not do ! Ser’s is 
no ordinary case. She may, of herself^ at any time, 
awake hs one awakens from a natural sleep ; if not, 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


171 


the remedy is to bring, back the scene, precisely as 
it was, that first produced the sleep.^’ 

From that time you answered when we spoke to 
you — but only the answers that we suggested to you 
by our silent wishing, or our spoken command; 
and in the hope that change of scene, of faces, and 
of things, might sooner bring about the hoped for 
wakening, we traveled. First we went to England. 
There Ned left us for a stay in Paris. But in his 
stead — first for my sake and for the memory of 
Georgine, and later for your own sake — you found 
a friend that never left us. It was then that hope 
first came to me. I fancied that in a vague way 
you recognized the watchful presence that was 
always near you when I was not with you ; and that 
in the same vague way you felt the loving of this 
friend. For when he left you, there was in your 
face a faint appealing look, as if to chide me that 
he did not stay ; and when he came, you looked 
contented — as well fed, well warm and cuddled 
infants look the happiness they can not speak, and 
scarcely know tiiey feel. 

For awhile we staid with him, this friend, in 
England. Then, again for your sake, we wandered 
to strange countries — you and I, and that dear 
friend, who loved you then for your own sake, and 
who had learned to love his own life but for your 


172 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


sake. Never was heart of man so patient and so 
tender ! His time, his love, himself, and all that he 
had to give, he gladly gave to you, with no return 
hut that dim, first knowing of his presence, that 
was his heaven. Once — when weary with watch- 
ing we had come back to England — as he sat with 
trembling lip and paling brow, looking with troubled 
eyes into the calmness of your own, and holding 
your little, unresponsive hand in his, I heard him 
murmur, — 

^If there were no other way than by my dying, 
that she might awake to life; then — if ere I go I 
might but tell her of my love, and hear her say, of 
her own will, ‘I love you — ’ that dying would be 
happiness ! ^ Then, seeing me, he started up, and 
with the light of a new purpose hashing from his 
eyes, he cried, — 

^ I shall wait no longer, aunt ! There is no grow- 
ing of these — the first faint signs of recognition. 
The fact that we are always near her, makes a 
habit of our presence, that may help to lengthen yet 
the calm monotony of her life. The physician 
said, ‘ She may, of herself, at any time, awake as 
one awakens from a natural sleep ; if not, the remedy 
is to bring back the scene, precisely as it was, that 
first produced the sleep.’ We have waited long 
enough for this — ^her own awakening; we will try 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


173 


the remedy. You, aunt, will write at once to Oscar 
Lyndhurst, urging him to come in greatest haste. 
Ned, at a word from you, will go to America, and 
to his ranch, in that far off valley in the West, and 
make the necessary preparations for our coming. 
Meanwhile, — ’ and here his strong voice faltered, 
and his words were low — I will have a form and 
face of wax, fashioned as perfect as can be, of our 
beloved Georgine. This form will wear the same 
gown that Georgine wore on that day. You will 
dress our fair somnambulist, too, as she was dressed 
that day. With these, we can bring back the scene, 
the dreadful scene, to seem to be precisely as it was 
that day. If this fail — ’ he paused ; then with closed 
eyes, and bowing low his head, he murmured, — 
‘ O God of Heaven ! then pity me, and help me 
bear the pain of thinking what my life might be, 
with this beloved one to walk, all knowing and aU 
loving, with me ! ^ 

Oscar had kept his word, not to write ; and it was 
only through his lawyer that we learned where he 
might be, and where to write. Our letters would 
be slow, we knew, to find him in his wanderings, 
and that before his answer, he himself might come. 
But he came not, and still no answer to our letters 
came. And then the friend that loves you, wrote 
to Oscar; praying him, for love’s sake, to come. 


174 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


^ Even as you,’ he wrote, ^ loved our Georginej and 
now, grief stricken, are a w^tnderer for her sake;' 
so I love Ellinore, and hear a sorrow for her sake. 
But gladly as we gave Georgine to your love, so, by 
your coming, you may give this loved one to my 
love.’ So he wrote, and for the answer Oscar him- 
self came. The letter had found him in Algiers, so 
he said, and that the others we had written had 
not reached him in his restless wandering from 
place to place. And when he looked upon the face 
of him, the friend who loves you, he was glad, 
almost joyous — ^poor man ! that he, who was so sad, 
might help to make those happy who had loved 
Georgine. We felt this, and pitied him for what 
he had to do — ^this that would bring back the keen- 
ness of his first pain. We knew the suffering that 
it cost him, when with feverish energy he said, — 

‘ Come ! I am ready now to go with you ! [Let us 
bring back the scene without delay — if back it must 
be brought! This Ellinore, this friend who loved 
Georgine, has found a lover ^ and next to gladly 
hurrying to my love — ^were she yet in this world 
to love — would gladly hurry to this Ellinore, to 
waken her, that she may know her lover and her 
love ! ’ 

You know the rest now, dear, — ^that what you 
remember was the semblance only of the scene 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


175 


of horror; a semblance that brought back to you 
the dreadful sense of living to where it had left you 
thirteen months ago. You saw us, recognized us — 
Ned and me; and then we led you to your room, 
as you remember, and drugged you to a peaceful 
sleep, from which you awoke, just now, to health- 
ful life; to know at last how much we love you, 
Ellinore — ^we who have so long loved 3^ou without 
your knowing.” 

^^Dear heart!” I cried, and soft-caressed the 
cheek that I drew down to mine. Dear heart, so 
patient and so true ! that much loving has long 
waited for the love my dumb existence knew not 
how to give, but which at last I give, as daughter 
to a faithful mother gives, and gladly gives ! Dear 
hands ! ” I cried, and kissed the tender hands that 
lay in mine. Hands that have done so much for 
me — ^who like a feeble child have done nothing for 
myself ! 

Here was a pause, then my sudden asking, — 

Where is Oscar Lyndhurst? Did he not tell 
you something more of himself — something that 
you have not yet told me ? Did he tell you nothing 
more of Georgine — nothing more of me?” And 
my eyes looked searchingly into hers. 

Nothing more, dear. He said that he had told 
us all he knew; and after that we could not bear 


176 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


to give him pain by speaking of it. You must not 
think it strange that he has gone away without 
seeing you. He dreaded your questioning of that 
dreadful hour and of Georgine. The bringing back 
of the sad scene was more than he could bear. He 
would not stay a moment longer, when his part was 
done, but went away, ‘ to come again,^ he said, ‘some 
other time, to look upon the happiness of her who 
loved Georgine.^ Poor Oscar ! the sad rehearsal 
that brought you back to life and love, could not 
bring back Georgine ; and in its dreadful troubling 
of her memory, it brought him only pain.^’ 

When she had thus spoken, we both were silent, 
with no sound to break the silence but the loud 
pulsations of our waiting hearts — ^her heart that 
waited for the question that her woman’s wisdom 
knew I soon would ask ; and mine that waited yet 
to think upon the strange recital. 

What had caused my long, strange sleep? Had 
Marcus by a means provided and foreseen, pro- 
duced it at the moment most propitious, that within 
the shadow of my dumbness and my silence he 
might hide until, with some new invention of his 
cunning, he might escape the hands of justice and 
of wrath? Or had my sleep been self -produced — 
a natural freak of my strange malady ? No matter, 
it had served the puiqmse of my foe beyond all that 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


177 


he couldhave wished or hoped for. His long absence 
and his silence, proved to me the purpose of 
his mind ; that if he alone were wanting to bring 
back the scene that was to bring me back to wak- 
ing life, my sleep would have had the length best 
suited to his liking. And well I knew why he had 
changed his mind, why at last he came, and in glad- 
ness came, and what was the meaning of his words, 
am ready now to go with you. This Ellinore, 
this friend that loved Georgine, has found a lover | 
and next to gladly hurrying to my love — were she 
yet in this world to love — would gladly hurry to 
this Ellinore, to waken her, that she may know 
her lover and her love.’’ Had he not said to me — 
with the last dreadful words I had heard him say 
— that he had waited for my loving only to take 
that love from me? And now the time had come 
when he might hope for that revenge — that which 
he meant to be his supreme revenge.” He was 
even now waiting to enjoy it; wherever he might 
be, I knew I could be sure of that. He had not 
staid to see my full awakening — and Mrs. Edmonds 
fancied it was for his sorrow’s sake; but I knew 
he had fled believing I would tell the truth. 

And would I tell it ? Ought I to tell it ? Whatever 
my future might be, would this dire revelation save 
me from the revenge of Marcus ? I did not believe 


178 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


it. On the contrary, it would increase his desire 
for revenge. And what good to those who had 
loved Georgine, would this revelation bring about ? 
No good. But I knew it would bring a great sorrow 
— an agony of torture to them. She died of tod 
much joy,” her aunt had said ; and I could see that 
she had nursed her pain to quietness by this thought. 
To tell her this was not the truth, and that her loved 
Georgine had died of a terrible sorrow — died of 
a broken heart; that she had died of a most cruel 
striking from the man she loved — died knowing that 
it was he who struck ; to tell her this, was to bring a 
poignant and an irreparable sorrow to the hearts 
that had loved Georgine and that cherished the mem- 
ory of her happy life. ^^No!” I said, within my 
heart, “I will not tell the dreadful truth until I 
must ; and for the sake of otliers whom I love, whom 
Georgine loved, I pray it may forever be untold!” 
And then I asked the question that she who patient 
waiting by my side knew that I would ask, — 

And where is yet the other face that, like yours,' 
staid and staid? That fair, kind something j that 
in my poor, dumb way I saw was so like her — 
that in my poor, dumb way I loved because it was 
something of Georgine? He must have loved me 
much, this friend, who staid through months of 
weary watching, of weary waiting, for my sake!” 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


179 


And with these words a sweet and blissful hope 
new fluttered in my heart, and moved my lips into 
a tender smile. 

And smiling back she left me, that dear woman ; 
and when she came again, came not alone. A tall,’ 
proud presence came with her^ a presence that 
was new — for I had only recollection of the face 
as I had seen it in my strange, sleepful days. And 
there it was again before me — ^the same fair face, 
the same sweet face. And now tliat I could see as 
others see, I saw a mouth of wondrous sweetness; 
eyes that were tender and were glad — these were 
Georgine’s. The face itself was Georgine’s own; 
but it was not a woman that stood before me — it 
was a man : it was not Georgine herself — it was the 
brother of Georgine. 

He stood, and long I gazed into his eyes, till mine, 
bedimmed with tears, could no longer gaze: then 
reaching out my hand, he took it in his own, and, 
kneeling low before me, said no other words than 
these, — 

Ellinore, if knowing me, at last, then know me 
for thine own ! Thine own to guard thee, cherish 
thee, but most of all to love thee, always, even as I 
have loved thee, for evermore ! ” 

^^M'y love! My love! This for my answer!” — ^ 
And I drew his head close to my heart, and softly 
.murmured, ^^God is good!” 


180 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


TMs w£is our wooing ; and witli the sweetness of; 
onr first embrace, he gave me yet another— the' 
kiss of onr betrothal. 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


181 


CHAPTER n. 

. So I awoke to the new life, whose sweetness had 

been born and nourished long without my knowing. 

I awoke to find myslf, in the first hours of my 

awakening, the affianced wife of Courtney Eller- 

ton. It was so strange and new; and yet, to me, 

it did not seem either strange or new. As I had 

✓ 

loved Georgine, so I loved now her brother. In 
our happy, loving days, she had talked of Courtney 
until I knew him even as she knew him. And had 
I not loved him through all the slumbering days, 
when be so much loved me? True, as dreamers 
love the phantoms of their dreams, so I had loved 
him then. But as in that vague life I wedded my 
poor self to him, dependent on his presence for my 
little happiness, and dumbly troubled when he 
went away ; so in my healthful life, my heart and 
soul were wedded yet to him. For now that I 
could see, and feel, and know, with all the keenness 
of a healthful life, I knew he held yet, and that he 
should forever hold, the power to make me happy 
by his presence and his love; and that should hel 


182 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


leave me, should he be taken from me^ my life 
would take a grief that neither time nor any loving 
could assuage. 

And would he be ^ mine always — “to guard mej 
cherish me, love me ? ” Had not every good, every 
joy that I had ever known, when best loved, best 
enjoyed, been taken from me? True, other bless- 
ings, other joys had happily come instead. But 
this, the latest blessing that was mine ; this, which 
to loving man and loving woman is the supremest 
happiness, the supremest good — should this be 
taken from me, I knew no happy life could spring 
again from deadness such as mine would be. 

Alas ! I held in the very fact that I was glad,! 
the proof that I should sorrow. I learned to look 
upon my happiness as loaned to me. The thought 
that at any hour it might be taken from me, taught 
me to measure each experience by the f ulness of 
its sweet; so each minute was a little world in 
which I lived enchanted. 

W e lived much, loved much in that happy time ; 
until there was but one short month to bring my 
wedding-day. 

****** 

What are these ? Tears ! And then I am not 
dead — ^though buried, not yet dead! Tears at tho 
memory of the happy times so far, so far from me ! 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


183 


And misery, and solitude, and — oli God ! madness — 
if not yet for me, for others about me, near to me ! 
Ah well, let me weep ! It is not for myself, as I am 
now, but for that other self, of whom I write. And 
here, with my tears, let me ask the pity, let me ask 
the tears of those who were, of those who now 
are, happy brides ; brides who happily waited for 
the wedding-day, that came with blessings and 
with gladness from Heaven and from Earth — ^for 
mine, my wedding-day, came not. 

It came not, for he came — ^my foe; and with a 
cruel sureness of the Devil’s o wn, he took me from 
my love, my happiness — ^from all that was living, 
from all that was life. 

It was when I was happiest. We had come to 
]SIew York — Mrs. Edmonds, Courtney and I; and 
despite the fear that I kept close hidden to myself, 
I was gayly making ready, for the wedding-day. 
Since the day of my awakening, no word had come 
to Mrs. Eduionds or Courtney from him they knew 
as Oscar Lyndhurst. Mrs. Edmonds, wondering, 
hoped that he would come ; I, fearing, hoped not. 

^^For should he come,” I reasoned, “should he 
even write, then I will tell the story as it is. He 
shall not, with my knowing, be again allied to those 
I love. It would be enough to say — ^were he not 
here — and were he here, to point to him in saying, 


184 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


‘ That is Marcus Pancho ! That is my foe ! And 
this I knew and Georgine knew, that last hour of 
our knowing — ^the hour that took her life from her, 
and left me living like one daft.’ This would be 
enough to set the hearts of those I love bleeding 
with a frightful wound; this would be enough 
to fill the measure of their vengeance against the 
man I fear and hate. But their suffering would 
be my pain; and in their vengeance what evil 
might come to my lover and my friend — ^what 
greater evil yet to me? So for the sake of these 
beloved ones, and for my own sake, I hope that he 
they know as Oscar Lyndhurst, will not come.” 

However, my fear that he might come, my dread 
of some sudden, frightful intrusion of his presence ; 
this fear, this dread, was bounded by a sense of 
safety, from the fact that I was never left alone. 
^^Ko sudden, dreadful sight, no excess of emotion, 
no abruptness in anything; but a tranquil life, a 
happy life — repose for the mind, content for the 
heart ! ” This is what the -wise and good physician 
had said, when questioned how to make my malady 
a harmless one, and in the end to make of it not one. 
So from this suggestion, and from the habit — ^that 
was carried with them from their watching of my 
helpless life — Mrs. Edmonds and Courtney, some- 
times one of them, sometimes both of them, staid 
continually with me. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


185 


But where is the mortal that will go straight on 
in a well chosen way without once turning from it ? 
Who that is wisest is always wise? Who that is 
any one thing is always that one thing. 

Once, only once, the two who loved me went away. 
Had they not gone, would I now be buried here from 
love, from life? W’ho knows? The Devil is not 
poor in ways to do his liking ! 

They had been gone one night, and before noon 
of the day that followed, they were to have been 
with me. Their going was for my sake; this they 
had whispered in kissing me good-bye. “A little! 
secret,’’ they said, that they should for a time keep 
from me. These “little secrets” were not new to 
me; and I had always found them out when sud- 
denly I looked upon some rare gift, or when some 
sweet surprise was made known to me. 

Before I had time to wonder whj^ they did not 
come, a letter came, with loving words enough to 
give me courage yet to wait another night, and still 
another day for their return. I did not feel a 
moment’s pang for the delay that gave me that 
dear letter. I have it now — here, where I placed 
it then, warmed with the poor warmth of my poor 
heart — ^that first and only letter, his written words 
of love — all that I have left now of his love. 

I was lonely- We were in the city for so short 


186 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


a time, we had not brought with us the solace of a 
maid — ^whose presence might have saved me for 
that time. The day was perfect, as a perfect day 
can be in the fair month of September. I could 
not cheat my longing for a walk ; and so I started 
out among a little world of people, some wLom I 
had known well in other days, but who — close veiled 
as I was — could not know me. I walked up the 
avenue, once so familiar, and coming back turned 
into a street, which I traversed ; and crossing yet 
another avenue, and half way of another street — 
that led into a little park to which I meant to go — 
I paused, as to my ear came the sudden cry of, — 

''Ellinore!’' 

It was a woman’s voice, and with the sound quick 
flashed the thought that I had heard the voice somd 
other where, and at some other time. It was but 
a fancy ; for when I turned to look, I saw no one that 
I had known. It was a Sister that I saw, in the; 
garb and bonnet of a Sister, and with the veil close 
drawn about her face. Beside her stood a man. 

Poor thing ! ” he said, and gazed at me with a 
look of real, or feigned pity. ^^Here she is!” he 
added, pointing then at me, as sudden from his hid- 
ing came a man, at the sight of whom I cried aloud 
and started back; while he — a fiend it seemed 
to me, with massive frame, with shining florid face, 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


187 


with, strangely cold and gleaming eyes — ^with a 
giant arm encircled me, while one huge hand of 
deadly whiteness closed upon my mouth. 

And there, without another word, in that well- 
governed city, in full day, with people Eurrying by ; 
there, with but one answer to the few who stopped 
to know the reason of my struggling and my stifled 
cry ; a silent answer, that seemed to quickly satisfy 
those who read it from the paper held to them by 
him who with one cruel hand held me 5 for as they 
read, their chivalrous souls dissolved in one last 
look, half curious, half of pity, and then — ^they ran 
away : there, in that well governed eity ! I was rudely 
seized by those I did not know, who did not know 
me, gagged, and placed within a carriage. The 
carriage rolled, it seemed to me — for a bandage had 
been put upon my eyes — for endless moments oij, 
and on ; then stopping, I was led up step by step into 
a door that opened without ringing ; and then again 
up stairs and stairs, and through another doorway 
— and then the bandage was taken from my eyes. 

I heard a stealthy step, a muflled click of closing 
lock, and I was left alone in darkness; the deep 
and awful darkness of a rayless night — ^although 
I knew without it was bright day. 

I groped about the room, and from the soft and 
sinking carpet came no echoing answer to my tread. 


188 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


It was, I thought, a middle chamber ; as upon three 
sides my fingers touched the waU and glided over 
muffled doors; the fourth, as far as I could reach, 
was covered with a padded cloth. Listening, I 
heard no sound of any living thing ; and stumbling 
noiselessly into a chair, I tried to think. 

I had not seen my foe — he who had always been 
himself the herald of the ill he meant to bring. But 
well I knew, without his presence, that this ill was 
of his bringing, and that somewhere within the 
shadow of the shameful scene he sat, and pushed 
the actors on. I was sure that Marcus Pancho did 
not mean to take from me my life ; that would be to 
take from him the power to torture it. The bold- 
ness of the outrage, the outrage itself, took away 
my fear. ISIj- foe had done at last a deed for which 
the law could punish. I had only to wait the return 
of Mrs. Edmonds and Courtney. The quick per- 
ception of the first, would tell her that Marcus 
Pancho had done whatever of evil had been done 
to me; the wisdom of the second, would tell him 
what to do. The affection of the one, the love of 
the other, the wealth and the influence of both— 
all this, in thinking upon it, assured me that in seek- 
ing me, they would never cease to seek until they 
had found me ; and in finding me, find the means to 
rid me effectually of my foe. Again, should Marcus 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


189 


try once more to make some dreadful use of my 
malady, the two who loved me knew as well as I, 
what, in my sleep I could be made to do. 

So I reasoned, with a strong resolve to feel no 
foolish fear, to keep my nerves in quiet, and to 
resist, with my own will, the will that might oppose. 
And how much, if at all, this mental fortifying had 
to do with the hypnotic phenomena that followed, 
I do not know; but, whereas in all other results — 
either induced or spontaneous — have no remem- 
brance of the means that were employed to produce 
that sleep, nor what occurred during that sleep — 
except at the latter end of my long trance, when 
I was already in a transition period preparatory 
to my complete awakening, and of which my remem- 
brance is simply a vague impression of what was 
the truth — of this experience which I am about to 
relate, and which was not a fancy, but an actual 
experience ; an experience that I leave to the inves 
tigation, and the explanation if possible, of men of 
science — of this experience I have a distinct remem- 
brance as it then appeared to me. 

Sitting there in the thick darkness, I saw sud- 
denly before me what seemed, in the wizardry of 
my sight, to be a legion of flaming, dancing fiends, 
that like the pictures of a kaleidoscope passed, and 
left before my gaze a giant — whose eyes were first 


190 


THE- DEVIL AND I. 


flaming balls of fire, then burning rings, and then 
huge prisms of changing hues. The face of this 
giant seemed a fierj, mocking thing ; the hands were 
shapeless lumps of whiteness reaching out to me — 
and yet I knew the giant was a man. 

So I was not unconscious. On the contrary, I 
seemed to possess a double consciousness. Besides 
myself, there seemed of that self a duplicate. My 
thinking self seemed idly watching another acting 
self. Something was put in the hand of this copy 
of myself, that seemed to it a huge, unwieldly club ; 
yet I, my own self, knew it was a pen. Again, before 
this foolish self, was laid a stretch of something 
that was one-half white ; the other half was striped 
in zigzag lines of black. I had no mind to touch 
this something that my grotesque self was hand- 
ling, and that I seemed to see how it must feel — the 
surface rough, the zigzag lines like blunt saws of 
crinkled parchment: and yet, my wiser self knew 
that before me lay one smooth, unwritten sheet 
of paper, and another written sheet. And more.:— 
I read the written sheet from end to end, Tcnowing 
the import of each word. 

Then, as from a distance, I heard a voice give a 
command — and I knew it was to write. And 
although, in seeing that my duplicate self was going 
to obey, I knew it was about to do a foolish thing, 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


191 


a thing that were I in its stead I should not do ; yet 
I did not interfere with the doing, nor do I remem- 
ber to have desired to do so. I felt no emotion 
either of wonder or of fear. It has seemed to me 
sincd, in recalling my impressions, that my superior* 
self was interested only as an observer of the 
other inferior self j and that while reasoning and 
thinking in a contrary way, I knew perfectly 
well what was in the mind of the self that was fool- 
ishly acting. 

At this stage of the phenomena I must have fallen 
into a state of complete unconsciousness ; as I have 
no remembrance of the interval that followed, until 
the moment I was aroused — perhaps by artificial 
means — ^when I heard a soft footstep, and the clos- 
ing of a door, as though some one were leaving the 
room. I remember to have drowsily thought it was 
Mrs. Edmonds that had passed through my room. 
In moving upon my bed I felt a painful weariness ; 
and opening my eyes, my mind was in the dazed 
condition of him who has traveled a long distance, 
and who arriving at his destination at night, is sur- 
prised when first awakening to find himself in a 
strange place, and not at home ; and who for the 
moment has no recollection of his journey, or even 
that he had left his home. I felt also the contin- 
uous, swaying motion, accompanied by a slight ver- 


192 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


tigo and nausea — ^that I had always felt after hav- 
ing traveled many hours in a steamboat or sleep- 
ing-car; and closing my eyes again, I lay quite 
still, to alleviate the unpleasant effect. Gradually, 
in reasoning why I was there, and not in my own 
room, and how I came there, I recalled all that had 
taken place to the time of the somnambulistic phe- 
nomena — ^these, the fact of the hypnotic sleep, and 
the curious effects produced upon my mind, I did 
not, at that time, at all remember ; they were dis- 
tinctly recalled later. 

Sitting upright in my bed, I perceived that I yet 
wore my walking dress ; it having been simply 
loosened, in order, I suppose, to secure me a more 
comfortable repose. Instinctively I touched my 
neck ; the chain, that held my mother’s locket, was 
still there. Then again searching close to my 
heart, where I had placed it, I found the letter — 
Courtney’s. Kissing it, tears blinded my eyes in 
thinking that it was a letter, only, and not Court- 
ney that I might caress. 

The room was dimly lighted, and my first impres- 
sion was that I was still within the room where 
I had been left in darkness, and that the dazed and 
dizzy feeling was the effect of some narcotic which, 
in some way, without my knowing, had been given 
to me. Looking straight before me, my eyes rested 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


193 


upon an open letter that lay upon a table. Quih 
ting my bed with difficulty — for I was aching in 
eyery part of my body — took it up, thinking it 
had been left for me. It was a letter to Courtney 
Ellerton, in my own handwriting, carefully writ- 
ten, and signed with my name.' 

I read it from the beginning to the end. Then, 
with a cry of pain, I asked myself what the letter 
meant ? Where had I seen it — for I remembered 
vaguely to have seen it? Why had I written it? 
W^hat means had been employed to make me write 
it ? And then, all at once, in the light of a sudden 
flaming from the past, I saw all that — in the shadow 
of the unconscious hours that followed — I had 
forgotten I had seen ; and I recalled distinctly 
everything that had occurred, as I have related it. 
I understood then, the meaning of the phantasma- 
goria that had passed before my sight. The flam- 
ing fiends that had danced before me, were the sud- 
den and successive flashing of vivid electric sparks 
— ^the means employed to bring about my curious 
sleep ; the fantastic shapes that the witchery of 
my vision saw, were the giant form, the gleaming 
eyes, the dreadful florid face, the dead white hands 
of him who had seized me, gagged me, placed me 
in a carriage, and had brought me to a room of dark: 
ness as of night. I knew, too, that my poor self, 


104 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


my automatic self, had copied out the letter as I 
saw it now before me ; and that the other self that 
looked upon it, following every word with a sort 
of painless pity for the weak self that wrote, was 
but that consciousness of right, that, in correct 
souls, even through a witless slumber, does not 
wholly sleep. 

Dear Mrs. Edmonds, and dear Courtney : — 

So I call you yet, for yet you are most dear to 
me — save one yet dearer, for whose sake I leave you. 
Courtney, I do not ask your pardon or your pity. 
I know too well the grossness of what will seem to 
you my long deceit, that will not let you pardon 
— ^the deceit that for your precious gifts of care 
and watching, feigned to give you love such as you 
gave ; the deceit that wore your love, as if a bless- 
ing, to the last, then left it as though it were of no 
worth. You will not pardon — ^no heart of mortal 
would. Your pity you will need more for your- 
self. Do I need pity, think you — ^I, who leaving 
royal offerings from a love like yours, could only 
leave it knowing that offerings still more royal, 
in my sight, from another’s loving, would be mine ? 

“I have not known you long, Courtney, and yet 
so well I know you— and that dear friend — ^that I 
know at first you will not believe, will not think of 
believing, that I am false, that I have been false— 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


195 


false to you both. Yes, long before Georgine loved 
Oscar Lyndhurst, he loved me. I loved him, too. 
But once we quarrelled ; and lest he should think 
I loved him yet, I denied that I had loved him. I 
was still too proud to let the world know I had ever 
loved, or that I had been loved — ^that is why you, 
dear Mrs. Edmonds, and Georgine never knew. 
You will understand, now, why in those days of 
Gebrgine’s loving, I was so suffering and so sad. 
Ah, those di'eaHful days ! They told me only of the 
lover of Georgine ; of him who once had been my 
lover ; of him whom I yet loved, but who could not 
now love me, who must never more love me. Alas, 
it was true ! I was loving him more than I had 
ever loved him — now that J Imew he was no longer 
free, and that he had gone forever from m^e. I 
loved him with a mad fervor that made my days 
a torture and my nights a heU. While Oscar had 
not even told Georgine — when she had tallied of 
me — that he knew me, that he had once loved me ; 
while that he promised for her sweet sake, 
Georgine’s, to be a friend to me— so much he wished, 
in his indifference, to punish my long-ago and much 
repented of indifference to him. He meant to see 
ine, to greet me as a stranger, — so I thought, and 
kept his secret ; trying always to ‘ make my heart 
as a millstone,’ and to ‘ set my face as a flint,’ that 


198 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


I might meet him in the coldness of his pride^as 
cold as he, as proud. 

“You remember th^ night he came, that I was 
too ill to see him. And you will know now, dear 
friend, that my illness was but the natural weak- 
ness of my poor coward heart. It was only the 
next rnorning, at the latest hour, that I was brave 
enough to leave my room. It was in the library, 
as I sat alone, that he came to me. Georgine was 
not with him. And then, even then, the weakness 
of my heart came back, as I saw, with wonder, the 
stern sadness of his gaze; and it was through 
tears that I blessed him as the lover of Georgine. 
But he, seeing my trouble, reading my love, with 
trembling voice and passionate words confessed 
that he yet loved me, and loved but me ; and that 
he had never ceased to love me; but that in 
the belief that I had never loved him — ^as in my 
anger I had once declared — ^he had met Georgine, 
and had sought her love, becausb she so loved me ; 
as I was dearest to her, as her friend, so he had 
hoped yet to be dear, as a friend, to me. Surprised 
that I had neither spoken to Georgine of him, nor 
had told her that I knew him of whom she wrote, 
he resolved to keep his knowing me a secret, until 
he should learn the reason of my silence and my 
secrecy. But now that he had seen me, now that 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


197 


he knew the truth — ^that I loved him even as he 
loved me — he would tell Georgine, he would tell 
you — ^for he could never call another his wife, 
knowing that I loved him, that I might yet he his. 
And then, before I could think what I must say 
and do, he — ^forgetting the vows that bound him to 
another, forgetting our Georgine, forgetting all but 
me — ^he clasped me to his heart, and cried in 
passionate tones, — ^ My love ! My love ! — ^My Elli- 
nore ! ’ And then the curtains parted, then we saw 
Georgine, and then — God knows I — ^we could not 
then undo what the madness of one brief moment’s 
loving had done ! You know the rest — ^the shock 
kiUed her, Georgine; and in the horror of that 
dying, my living, happily, was made dumb. 

Happily, I say, for seeing that you could not call 
me back to conscious life, Oscar, in his pity, helped 
you to believe that which your reason seized upon 
as true — ^that our Georgine had died of too much 
happiness. And — ^Heaven knows ! that I too kept 
the secret, from the hour of my awakening, for 
your sake ; and that in taking the rich gift of 
Courtney’s love, it was for Georgine’s sake — ^that 
I might put away all hope of being Oscar Lynd- 
hurst’s wife. I believed that Oscar was of my 
mind, and that he had gone away because he could 
not, in his deep remorse, bear to look upon my 


398 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


face; and that he came again, with joy, to bring 
me back to life, and to another love than his, that 
in the pain of his great sacrifice he might, as I was 
doing, do penance. His going yet again, without 
one word from me, his silence — ^this confirmed all 
that I believed; and so I said, — ‘He suffers to 
avenge the dead : the wrong was mine as well as 
his — 1 too will suffer.’ 

“ Alas ! I did not know the weakness of my will, 
nor half the strength of my mad love. No more 
did Oscar know the weakness of his will, nor yet 
the passion of his love. You went away, you and 
Courtney. By chance I saw him — him whom from 
childhood I had loved. The rest is only that he 
loves me yet as he has always loved me — even as 
I love him. A love too overpowering in its sweet- 
ness and its charm, now that we have met, to lose 
again, to lose forever, in the parting that must 
be, to make me your wife, Courtney. Love or 
Duty — and a moment to decide. Love decided — 
so we went her way. 

“ I know what you will say, dear Mrs. Edmonds, 
in thinking over all that I said in my gratitude 
to you for your tender mother care; of the glad- 
ness and the content I looked while I believed my- 
self to be the wife of Courtney. You will say it 
^is not true-:-this that I now write; and that in 


THE DEVIL AND L 


199 


my full sense I would not write it. You, knowing 
all that I have told you of [Marcus Pancho, and all 
that he might, without my knowing, make me do, 
you will say that he came, and that the sudden shock 
at sight of him has made me daft again, and that 
I am again his victim. Not even the witnesses that 
saw me come to my room with Oscar, and go away 
again with him ; not the servant who saw me choose 
the linen and the gowns, and some little things, and 
things essential to my toilette, that I took with me ^ 
not these witnesses, nor anything, will turn you, 
from the fixed opinion you will hold as true. ‘ She 
did it in her sleep,^ you will say, ^ all that she has 

done; as she did foolish things for Doctor H ; 

and as she still, at that physician’s bidding, wrote 
a letter of abuse against a pastor, well-reputed for 
his honest goodness and his simple faith; so, at 
the bidding of her foe, she has written this let- 
ter.’ 

Thus you will reason, and despite of thinking of 
some things that might seem curious in the past; 
of the questions that I asked in wonder, after my 
awakening ; of Oscar’s continued absence and con- 
tinued silence ; from all these — of which, now that 
you are set to thinking, you might think of in a 
dijfferent way from the way that you have thought 
— ^from these, the whisperings that will come to 


200 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


warn you, you will turn, eyery time they come, back 
to the good you know of me, back to the faith you 
have in me 5 and still your woman’s loye and good- 
ness will trust on. So, too, your faith in Oscar 
will be strong to help you in your search for Mar- 
cus Pancho — ^for you will not belieye, not for one 
moment, that the man of whom I write is Oscar 
Lyndhurst, nor that I who write am Ellinore, until 
you see us both together — ^him with me. So, with 
your woman’s faith and woman’s will, you will seek, 
with Courtney — ^who, though less beheying and 
less hopeful, will yet belieye through you, yet hope 
through you — ^first Oscar, whom when found, your 
search, poor woman, will end where you had hoped 
it would begin. Till then — ^until you find Oscar, 
and so find me — dear Mrs. Edmonds, dear Courtney, 
you wiU see no more of her who wiU seem to 
you your most ungrateful, but who is — ^ye in her 
greater loye for Oscar — ^your most loying and most 
grateful, 

Ellinore.’’ 

This was the letter that I, my curious, automatic 
self, had copied from a letter that Marcus had writ- 
ten for me ; that I had copied twice — ^first for them, 
my loyed ones, to whom doubtless it had been sent ; 
then for myself, that I might read aU that I had. 
dum,bly .written. Alas! What in imy blindness 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


201 


had I done against myself and those who loved me ! 
For in keeping the secret for their sakes, I gave 
my foe the text from which he wrote this letter. 
All that had happened — ^my sadness in the days 
of Georgine’s loving’ my illness when he, whom 
they believed her lover, came; the questions that 
I wondering asked after my awakening; all these, 
would be but proofs that I was dumbly making 
ready for those who loved me to believe me false. 
This was a letter of a devil, and not a letter of a 
man. Written with the subtle fineness of him who 
knew best how to word the knowledge that he 
held, to make his falsehoods look like truth ; whose 
cunning framed each phrase to make it read like 
mine ; whose fiendish wisdom had omitted nothing 
from what he had framed, to furnish to those who 
loved me the proof that I had foully wronged them, 
and could in this shameful manner write it out. 

What then could I still count upon, to have no 
fear that those I loved would leave me to a hapless 
or uncertain fate ? What, but the certitude within 
taiy heart that they, too, loved me with a sovereign 
faith in my affection and my truth? The surety 
in my mind that she who knew the deadly malice 
of my foe, and who had seen the freaks of my mal- 
ady, would, with a woman’s fineness, see beyond 
what seemed to be the truth, and with her woman’s 


202 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


faith would still trust on until she had found me, 
and, from my own lips should know the truth? I 
had no thought to judge my lover and my friend 
other than I would have them, were I in their stead, 
judge me. And so, stiU without fear, I trusted, 
])elieving they would come. 


THE DEVIL AND L 


203 


CHAPTER m: 

.Wliere was I ? No one came ; but some one Lad 
been there, for in my drowsy wakening I had heard 
soft footsteps. What time was it? My watch 
was lying on a dressing-bureau ; the time was 'morn- 
ing, the hour eleven. A calendar turned to the day 
and date, told me it was Thursday, and the last day 
of September. It was Wednesday I had taken the 
walk that had brought me here. Since then it ha^ 
been night, and now it was morning. 

Going to the window — ^there was but one — I 
raised the shade that I might have more light f and 
started back in terror and in dread. I was looking 
through a lattice of iron wire, that was fastened 
securely on the four sides by iron bands. This 
wire lattice could be opened — ^for the window on 
the other side of it was open — ^but now it was 
locked, and the key was not there. Outside of the 
window — ^which was of thick glass — ^there were 
heavy zig-zag bars of iron, fastened together, every 
inch, by solid iron clamps. No human being could 
enter my room from without 


204 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


The building that I saw through this doubly grated 
window, was 'in the shape of the letter U. I was in 
a corner room of the end of this TJ, from which I 
could see the whole of one side of the building, and 
a pai’t of the other. Every where there were iron 
grated windows. At the other end — the end fac- 
ing me — was a high wall, over which I could see 
only the shy beyond. This wall, with the three 
sides of the building, formed a large court, which 
was covered with faded, trodden down grass. There 
were some trees, whose falling leaves strewed the 
ground. There had been flowers, in the summer 
time, but they were all dead. 

I saw people walking, but I heard no voices. 
That suggested the thought that I was in an asylum 
for the deaf and dumb. But why the heavy 
graJted windows everywhere? And then came 
another thought that made the blood run cold 
within my veins. What if I were shut up in a mad- 
house? In terror then I looked about the room; 

, and now that there was more light, I saw that it 
was neat and pretty : and in examining all that it 
contained, my heart again took courage. 

It was true then, as the letter said, that I had 
gone — from the darkness of the room where they 
had brought me — sleep 'walking, back to my own 
room, and had taken the linen and the gowns, some 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


205 


little things, and things essential to my toilette.” 
For a wardrobe in one corner held my gowns ; gowns 
for indoors only — as they were all soft of texture, 
and warm in color, or all white. That meant that 
I should have no need of dresses to go out. A chest 
of drawers contained the linen necessary to my 
wants, and sorted in each drawer with a woman’s 
care. There were i)ictures about the room, and 
there were books — ^books of prose, and poetry, that 
might take months to read, and not tales with which 
to while away an hour. The one door of the room 
was of massive oak, and made no movement when 
I tried to shake it from its solid setting in the wall. 
I knew, without my trying — ^although I tried it — 
that it was securely locked. 

All this,” I reasoned, this, the comfort and the 
care, the minding of the little things to please the 
fancy and to divert the mind, means long imprison- 
ment — ^not mxadness, and not death. To make me 
mad, they would not put me in a pleasant room, 
nor would they study how to please. To bring me 
death, they would not bring me comfort, that will 
help me live! No ! not for madness, and not for 
death, is this which is at present my prison ; but 
for som^e other purpose, that will take yet time to 
hatch into a greater evil; and in that time, what 
good may come to me — nay, must come, if my lover 


206 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


and my friend be yet alive ! Then give me courage,' 
God of Heaven ! help me but to wait — ^it may be 
long, it may be but for a little while — ^the coming 
of the loving ones I love ! ’’ 

In thinking, I had thought aloud. But there was 
none to hear me — so I thought. And then I searched 
among the “little things,” to find the crewel and 
the needles ; which when I had found, I set about the 
pleasant work of knitting. For I meant to be busy, 
to help myself to cheerfulness, that Heaven, in 
answer to my prayer, might help me. 

Presently I found that I was hungry. And, as 
if its near coming had by some unknown sympathy 
brought to my mind its need, my breakfast came, — 
an appetizing breakfast, neatly served and set 
before me. Without a sign the door had opened 
noiselessly, and she who entered might have taken 
— ^with the fear and wonder that she brought — ^all 
thought from me of what I had to eat and drink, 
but that the strange experiences of my life had 
taught my eyes to cease to wonder at strange peo- 
ple and strange sights. This was another strange 
sight — this gaunt and ugly woman, with manlike 
features and manlike height; and whose large and 
brawny arm suggested a manlike force. Without 
a word, without a glance at me, she set the food 
before me— of which, and of service, there was 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 207 

nothing lacking that I might demand— and turned 
to go. 

Do not go,’’ I said, clutching the strange, coarse 
gown she wore, “ until you tell me where I am, what 
house this is, and where there is some other woman, 
or some other one, to tell me something of myself ! ” 

The woman — ^that looked most like a man — seemed 
as if she doubted that I could know her meaning ; 
then, for my answer, placed her manlike fingers to 
her ears, and then again upon her mouth, and slowly 
shook her head. 

Had she taken me for an idiot ? Of course I knew 
her meaning — she was deaf and dumb. And with 
an exultant cry I loosed my hold. The woman could 
not hear, and could not speak; the staring, silent 
people that I saw in the court below — ^they could 
not hear, and could not speak. My prison was no 
worse than I at first supposed — ^an asylum for poor 
mutes, a refuge for the deaf and dumb. ; 

I had nothing then to do but wait ; so I read, 
and wrought at worsteds, and knitted at my crewels, 
while the weeks, that made a month, went by. One 
day was like every day; and save the manlike 
woman, no other living thing came to my room. 
This woman kept the room in order, and provided 
all I might have asked for, without my asking. 
Morning, and noon, and evening, she brought each 


208 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


day my food. And 1 worked, and prayed, and 
waited ; and laid me down to sleep each night, with 
the hope that on the morrow they, for whom I 
waited, would come. 

But when the weeks grew longer than a month, 
my waiting became more wearisome. Impatience, 
and then wonder why they came not, mingled 
largely with my hope; and then an unquiet long- 
ing to know something of the house that was my 
prison, that in that knowing I might perhaps find 
some other meoms, than waiting, to escape. 

There was but one door to my room, and but one 
window ; and to escape from my prison, I must go 
out through the one, or the other. The door was 
always locked ; it locked of itself, -when softly closed 
each time by the mute. And had I been a man, with 
the skill and force to make a way through the grat- 
ings of my window, the unfriendly eyes by day, the 
yet more unfriendly dogs by night, would make me 
still — in the court below — a prisoner, and perhaps 
a more unfortunate one. But when one is ready 
for the doing of a thing, the way to do it is more eas- 
ily found. 

Waiting, I found a way. It was evening, and the 
manlike woman had just entered my room with a 
tray containing a light supper, — dinner was always 
served at midday— when there was the sound of a 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


209 


shrill whistle, followed by a piercing shriek. Then 
I made a discovery. The woman 1 had thought deaf 
and dumb, was not deaf ,* for, in response to tiie 
whistle, she hurriedly set down the tray, and as hur- 
riedly went out. But not more quickly than I — ^who 
Avas now always on the alert — followed her, and 
placed between the door and the wall a soft, pliable 
substance — ^that I had made ready in anticipation 
of a like opportunity — that prevented the door 
from closing sufficiently to lock it; then waiting 
for the footsteps to die away, I opened the door 
and glided noiselessly out, intending only to look 
cautiously about, and then return. 

My searching eyes rapidly took in the long and 
gloomy hall, with rooms on either side. I went 
towards the end of the hall nearest to me ; on going 
the length of my room, 1 could go no further. A 
door barred my passage; and, as at my window, 
there was a wire netting on one side of the glass 
door, and thick iron bars on the other. The hall 
was long, and the other end of it seemed so far from 
me, that I hesitated, fearing discovery and some 
unknown punishment as the result. But it was 
only for a moment; then I steadily went on, softly 
turning the knob of each door — and every one was 
locked — ^to the end. And again I could go no fur- 
ther. The thick glass door, that led out, was wire 
netted and iron bound like the other. 


210 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Then crouching down into the gloom of one cor- 
ner, and with my face close to the grated door, 
trembling, I waited. The discovery of my close 
imprisonment, outside of the room that was my 
prison, was an alarming one. What was the mean- 
ing of the grated windows I had seen e’^^ery where 
in looking from my window ? What was the mean- 
ing of these grated doors? Whose was the pierc- 
ing shriek that had taken, in haste, the manlike 
woman from my room ? And in this rapid question- 
ing, the terror, I had once felt at the thought that 
I was shut up in a madhouse, — ^with a new and 
dreadful force came back. 

I could see through the grating into another hall 
— as far as the view was unrestricted by the grat- 
ing ; and still waiting, not knowing why I waited, I 
heard a noise as of scuffling feet, and then a shriek, 
and the sound of voices to the left of the hall where 
I could not see, and at some distance yet from me — 
for I could not at first di ting a h the words ; but the 
noise and the voices becoming more and more dis- 
tinct, I concluded they were approaching in the 
direction where I was. All fear of being discovered 
had vanished in my terror of the suspicion where I 
was ; and breathless and rooted to the spot, listen- 
ing, I still waited. 

On they came, the scuffling feet and voices, until 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


211 


I could distinguish one — a woman’s voice. Tlien, 
from the right of the corridor — into which, unseen 
myself, I was seeing — I heard footsteps rapidly 
approaching ; and then a form sped by, a form I 
knew — ^the form of him who had seized me, gagged 
me, and placed me in a carriage. 

Do not put her there ! he cried, in a dreadful 
voice. ^‘Come this way!” 

At the sight of him who had spoken, the woman^s 
voice grew louder ; and what she said then, I knew 
was said to him. 

“ Ah ! At last I see you — ^you, the master demon 
of a horde of demons, who for the money that you 
get, know how to make us mad ! ” 

Then they came in sight. The woman — who was 
still young, although her hair was white, and whose 
face, even through its ghastly pallor, was a comely 
one — ^was led, or rather dragged, by the manlike 
creature that was my attendant, and by another, 
that was “more like a ghoul than man or woman. 
The florid faced man — ^him I knew, and to whom the 
w^oman had spoken — ^then bade them stop ; and 
while they waited, in doubt of something, or in 
conference, the woman still talked on. 

Ah ! you are going to put me in the i dangerous 
ward ! ^ Me ! although I came to you — ^you, the so- 
called ‘ Christian gentleman/ the * honored head ’ of 


212 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


this ^ well reputed and humane retreat — ’ believing 
that you, in your skill and kindness, might cure the 
sickness ot my nerves — not madness. You are 
going to put me in the ‘ dangerous ward — ’ although, 
despite your ^ treatment ^ you see I am not ma<l ! 
To-morrow, my brother will come. I heard you — 
when last he came — name the day and hour when 
he should come. I heard you, too — when he begged 
to see .me, promising not to speak, nor to listen 
should I speak — heard you, in your soft and 
silken voice, persuade him to go away without a 
sight of me, without a word from me, lest he 
should — ^as you said — ^ undo the good ^ that you had 
do]ie for me. He went away — ^poor man ! believ- 
ing that when he will come again, I shall be ^ cured,’ 
and wiU return with him. But you will cheat him 
of this happiness ; you, pointing to me, Avill show 
me from this dremiful ward — this ward that means 
incurable. And could I be calm, in begging him, 
for aU pit^^’s sake, to take me away with him ; you, 
with a look of feigned pity for him and for me, 
would say, — ^ This is at times a form of her madness ; 
they all say thus — ^ I am not mad ! ’ But you will 
not let me have this chance of calmness ! You 
wiU use your hellish tortures and your drugs, to 
serve your purpose — that, for the time my brother 
looks upon me, I shall indeed be mad ! Ah well ! 
Kill my body — ^you cannot kiU the soul ! ” 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


213 


This the woman shrieked, as— the conference 
ended— they opened wide an iron grated door, and 
dragged their victim in. 

Was the wretched woman sane, as she believed 
herself, or was she crazy? I know not. I only 
know she was, — poor soul ! like me — a woman. 

“ Do your duty said the voice of dreadful soft- 
ness ; and with a look of tigerish fierceness he 
strode back, past me, whence he had come. 

And still my eyes were fastened to the horror 
that went on, so close, I heard the woman’s gasping 
breath and broken words of prayer. And then I 
saw the manlike woman and the other monster, 
lift their victim up — one at the head, the other at 
the feet — high up, then loose their hold ; while she, 
this gentle, suffering woman, fell heavily to the 
floor. Alas ! that for the curse of sin, devils must 
walk the earth abroad with men and women ! 

I started up and clutched the grating. I, a feeble 
and an imprisoned woman, what could I do by cry- 
ing out — but bring perhaps upon myself the tort- 
ure that I could not take from another ? 

“Had she swooned?” They were not certain; 
and so they wallced upon her — those ghouls — until 
a crimson flow made ghastlier yet the pallid face 
beneath them. The woman made no sound, nor 
tried to wipe away the warm blood staining. So 
they knew she was unconscious. 


214 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Then I saw a curious thing; a crib — ^for aU i 
know it might have been a coffin — ^whose four sides 
and top were of strongly netted wire. It was a 
cage. A cage, and not for beasts — ^but for a woman ; 
for I saw them raise one side, and put her in — ^their 
unconscious victim — ^then hinge and lock the dread- 
ful box. I saw this, and then, with a loud cry of 
horror, I lied like one distraught to seek my room. 

But wildly as I sped the gloomy corridor, steps 
followed faster — ^bounds, not steps — ^until I felt 
upon my neck and cheek the heated breath of the 
beastlike man and woman. And then their dread- 
ful grasp was laid on me ; I was borne into my room 
and laid upon my bed ; something was put on me 
that held me down without the power to move ; a 
funnel was placed within my mouth, through which 
an acrid liquor flowed, burning my throat; and 
deadly narcotics — so I now believe — were given to 
me through punctures in the skin; my brain was 
wild, my thoughts became confused, my tongue 
seemed a ponderous lump that made no other than a 
mumbling sound. But I knew yet all that was doing, 
all that had been done ; and through the nightmare 
of terror and the dazing consciousness, I struggled 
with a mighty will against the influence of the drugs, 
and against the dread unconsciousness — ^that in 
this hour of terror my malady might bring about. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


215 


Was it indeed the efforts of my will, or was it 
the presence of a pitying Angel, that kept me from 
the peril of a long nnconsciousness within this 
dreadful place ? Both, let me believe — and others, 
if they wdll — Heaven alone can know. 

The demons had not yet finished to their liking, 
when one came. Could it be a friend — I knew 
enough to reason ? No ; for it was one whom I had 
seen ; one who was an enemy — one who had helped 
to take me, on that fatal day, from life and happi- 
ness, to bring me here to mystery and pain. It 
was the Sister — black-robed and silent, and wear- 
ing yet the Sister’s bonnet. The lamp was faintly 
burning ; and, in the shadow of the woman’s bonnet, 
I could not see a feature of her face. In a whisper- 
ing voice she said some words, and then the thing 
that held me down, was taken away. With her 
hand she made a movement, and the two monsters, 
scowling, went from our presence out. Then a 
draught was held to my burning lips; a draught 
I knew was meant to soothe me, and to undo the ill 
that had been done to me, so I took it — ^too weary 
and too suffering to be curious. Then I closed my 
eyes; and when I opened them, perhaps hours 
later — for I took no note of time — ^my fevered 
brain was quiet, and my tongue had lost its numb- 
ness, so that I could speak. But with my first 


216 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


words, the black robed woman made a sign that 
hushed my questioning ; and then she gave me yet 
another potion — a soothing one ; for I closed my 
eyes and drifted to a long and pleasant sleep. 

When I awoke the morning light was shining — 
as best it could, through my poor blinded window. 
She was still there, close by my side — ^the silent, 
black robed woman. For it was she, although she 
was not wearing then the Sister’s gown and bonnet. 
But, instead, she wore a loose, black gown, tied 
with a heavy cord about the waist. The hood — a 
part of the gown — was close drawn about the face, 
all but the forehead — ^which was covered low with 
bands of dark grey hair. The eyes I saw only 
through colored glasses. 

A fear was still upon me — the dread, ungovern- 
able fear that came while from behind the grated 
door I had looked upon the scene of horror. A fear 
for the present — for myself ; a fear of torture, of 
madness, a fear of fear itself. A fear, the like of 
which, for every human heart upon this earth of 
things to fear, there is no other has so much of 
terror — ^the fear of a sane and thinking soul that 
find himself imprisoned in a mad-house. 

Who was the woman sitting there, so strangely 
cladj so sombre, so mysterious ? And whispering — 
for the silence all about me had taught me caution — 
I cried^— 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Sl7 

“ Woman, — ^for you are a woman, and so must 
have, at times, a woman’s heart — ^have pity ! Oh^ 
for the pity of the pitying Christ for you, for all 
of us — have pity ! You who have helped to bring 
me here, must know I am not mad ; and that to hold 
me is a crime — ^a crime with which you charge 
your soul too heavily, to answer for it to the Great 
Judge that after this poor life will judge you ! 
Help me to escape ! You, too, escape with me ! 
You can not want to live in this most dreadful 
pla^ ! Let me out of this — ^this mad-house ! I have 
money, and others whom I love have money — ^we 
will giv^e the half to you ; we — 

“ Hush ! ” she said, still in a whisper. “ Do not 
talk again like this to me I I am not your friend — 
although in your late experience I may have seemed 
to be. Do not talk like this to others whom you may 
chance to see; lest you be treated as she was 
treated — ^the woman you saw put in the iron crib. 
You can not of yourself escape. They whom you 
saw believe you mad, but harmless — as you seemed 
to be through aU the weeks before you left your 
room. You were not wise to leave your room; to 
make discoveries ; to lose your natural coolness and 
yom’ calm — ^all this, that made them think you were 
no longer ‘harmless;’ so they treated you as they 
treat others whom they find ungovernable. Bd 
quiet; take no note, or seem to take no note, of 


218 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


anytMng ; and ask no questions. This is your only 
safety; this your sole security that you may live 
on undisturbed in this your room — ^your prison.^’ 
She did not wait to hear what I might say, but 
glided from the room, and left me. She was not 
my friend — so she had said; and in her cold and 
silent presence there was no sign of friendliness ; 
nor was there pity in the words of counsel she had 
given to me. And yet I felt that in some vague way, 
perhaps without her knowing, she was my friend; 
and my fear had less of terror. I again took cour- 
age from my reasoning: that the comforts of my 
room, the care for my body and my mind; the 
desire to keep from me all knowledge of the place 
wherein I was imprisoned ; the silent woman’s care 
and then her counsel — ^all these were proofs that 
they who placed me here had done it for another 
purpose than to bring me madness, or to bring me 
death. The woman knew that I was sane. She 
was but the instrument to do — ^and perhaps blindly 
to do — the will of others. But who could tell what 
time might do to turn her heart to pity and to 
make of her my friend? “And while I live,” I 
murmured, “I shall hope, nay, believe, that they 
who love me will yet find me. Should there come 
a time when I may no more hope this, no longer it 
believe, then I shall be no longer among the living — 
I shall be dead.” 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


219 


CHAPTER rV. 

She did not come again — ^the strange woman I 
had hoped to make my friend. Days, weeks, and 
months of awful silence and monotony went by, 
and she came not — ^and they whom I loved came not. 

Where were they for whom I hoped and waited ? 
Something had happened, something strange and 
dreadful, to keep them yet from me. “What! 
"In this land of shrewd folk, where every man with 
native keenness scents out wrong; where journals 
send throughout the nation flaming tongues that 
show, in their light, deeds done in the darkness; 
when with no gain in money, and with no requital 
— save in the joy of duty done — a, generous public 
hastens to find a strayed or a missing child ; to hunt 
to justice, or to death, the gross betrayer of the 
humblest maid; when this, and more, the public 
does to avenge outrages and to right the wrong — 
shall not the two who love me do yet more ? Aye ! 
they will search and search in all the land, in every 
land, in each mysterious corner, in every cell of 
every asylum — ^until they find me ! ” So I kept say: 
ing to myself, and hoping, fearing, waited. 


220 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


The black-gowned woman had told me to be calm, 
to take no note of what I saw about me, and to ask 
no questions. Of my own self I knew that she had 
wisely spoken, so I kept my face in quiet; and 
when the manlike woman came to serve me, — 
although I shivered with a sense of fear at each new 
sight of her — dumbly stared as if I did not know 
that she was there. I knew she was not deaf, and 
I suspected she was not dumb ; yet, Heaven knows, 
I was afraid to look a question lest I should hear 
her speak. 

Where was the strange and sombre woman, that 
she came no more? Was she indeed a Sister? 
Or was she the matron of the asylum, perhaps the 
wife of the florid faced, the dead white handed man 
that kept my prison ? Why had I never seen her 
face? Why only in whispers had I heard her 
voice ? Alas ! Of what use this, and all my ques- 
tioning, that found no answer ? She came not, but 
in her going she had left a good — ^the inside grating 
had been taken from my window ; and I was nearer, 
a little nearer, the world without. And when at 
last the weary waiting brought a deep mournfulness 
that not books, nor crewels, nor faith, nor prayers, 
could banish from my mind, I stood — ^like other 
wretches, men on one side, women on the other, 
that I dimly saw through their double grating — ; 


THE DEVIL AND I. 221' 

hour by hour for days and weeks, watching at my 
window. 

This is how I found the one good that Heaven 
sent to me in that dread solitude. I saw a face, so 
gentle and so suffering, it helped me to more 
patience. The window, in which I saw it, was near-’ 
est to my own that I could see ; and like mine, the 
inside grating had been taken away. The face — 
it was a m^n^s — ^was pallid as the dead, and wasted. 
The lips were bloodless as the brow and cheek. 
The hair was long, and fell about his neck in waves 
of snowy whiteness. The eyes were large, and from 
their black and mournful lustre looked the little 
life that told me it was not a vision that I saw, but 
a living face. The form was tall, and wasted as the 
face — or so it seemed, wrapped in the long folds 
of a dressing-gown. His hands were small and 
white, and meekly crossed before him. 

At the first sight of me he started back, as if in 
wonder and alarm; then his face seemed troubled, 
and in pain. But his first greeting was a smile — 
as if he feared to frighten me away; a smile so 
mournful and so sweet, I gave him back his greet- 
ing with a smile that must have looked to him as 
pitying, and as sad. 

^^He looks a king, captive and uncrowned, de- 
spoiled of all he called his own, and robbed of 


222 


THE DEVIL AND I, 


every hope ! I murmured low, as steadily I gazed 
back at his long gazing — ^the while I wondered at 
his wonder, and his pain. 

Where had I seen a face with something in it 
like that face — ^for there was something in it that I 
saw, that was not strange ? Who was he ? What 
was his history? Day by day I asked myself these 
questions, as day by day I stood at my window 
watching him who was always at his window — so it 
seemed to me — ^waiting to see me. For from some 
subtle sympathy — and more by the brightness that 
made shine the sombre blackness of his eyes at 
each new sight of me, and which with my going 
always faded out — 1 knew that the vision of my 
face had grown for him a thing to long for and to 
love. And more; I felt— explain the reason, you 
who can — ^that he whom I looked upon, this man of 
gentle bearing and of gentle face, was sane as I. 

On mornings when the sun shone brightest, I 
could see within his room ; and I saw that it was 
carpeted. A dressing-bureau, too, I saw, and an 
easy chair. And so I said, “His nioney, or the 
money paid for him, has given him the comforts 
that are needful to prolong his life for suffering,’ 
so that with his living they who keep him here may 
be enriched. Perhaps he has, like me, grown meek 
with wisdom, so that they who are about him may 


' THE DEVIL AND L 


223 


known him, too, as “ harmless,’ and spare him the 
dreadful treatment’ that must kill, or make one 
mad.” 

But whoever fie might be, whatever he might be,' 
I knew — ^alas ! he must have been shut up for long 
years, to look like that — so ghastly pale and shad- 
owy. What if — oh Heaven ! in the long category 
of dread suspicions and dread fears that had been, 
this suspicion and this fear, that came then, had 
not come;-— what if, by some dire fate, my loving 
ones should never find me? What if the hellish 
cunning of my keeper, and of the devil who put me 
here, sliould find a way to keep me here ? To live 
— oh God ! how many years of suffering, and then 
to die, at last, within the four walls of my prison 
— the walls that seemed even then closing narrower 
for my tomb ! 

And then, as if to add to this new dread, I heard 
beneath my feet the sound of hammer and of saw. 
What was it to me, what they were doing below, 
above, or any where that was not in my prison ?; 
Yet I could not chase from my fevered brain the 
thoughts of other wretched prisoners who had heard 
the dreadful work go on outside their prison cell, 
that was for them the frightful herald of their death. 
I almost fancied I should see the scaffold rise before 
my window, as they had seen it rise for them — ^poor 


224 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


wretclies, doomed to hang thereon. For days and 
nights the sound went on that staid this dreadful 
fancy. And then it ceased; then some one came 
— ^the silent, black-gowned woman came, and led 
me through a door-way in my room — ^where I had 
not knpwn there was a doorway — into another 
room. 

It was a woman^s room; and the fancy came to 
me that it was hers, the silent woman’s ; that she 
had lived there in that room, near me, without my 
knowing, perhaps to guard me and to care for me. 
She did not leave me now ; and in my heart I wished 
that while I staid — ^if stay I must, in my one room 
— she too would stay with me. 

But what was that? Again the sound, of hammer 
and of saw ! And not now beneath my feet, but 
nearer, — in my own room ! 

What are they doing here^ and what were they 
doing there F ” I cried — stHl haunted by the hideous 
fancy of the scaffold — ^pointing first to my own 
room, then down, beneath my feet. 

The woman gently forced me back to the seat 
from which I had risen. Hush ! ” she said, in a 
low whisper, I may not promise you safety, should 
they hear you talk. Try to be calm, that you may 
find again your courage. You will have need of it, 
to make ready; lest the sudden coming of an ill 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


225 


may find yon unprepared, and in the frenzy of your 
terror you may not seem to be harmless, and they 
whom you have seen, may think they have again a 
reason to serve you with a treatment’ that will 
make much worse an evil that may come.^’ 

They will not — oh God ! they will not put me in 
an iron cage, like that — ^like that in which I saw 
them put the grey-haired woman ! You will not let 
them do that to me — ^that thing so horrible !. You 
will not — for you are a woman ! ” 

Her hand, that lay upon my shoulder, trembled 
with a nervous start; and in my heart I felt the 
pity that she did not show. 

“I can do nothing for you,’^ she said, ^^but give 
you the same counsel that I once gave you : do not 
speak, and do not seem to see 'the strangeness of 
any thing that you will see. If you will heed me, 
you may be sure that in the place where you are 
going, no greater evil can come to you than in the 
place where you have been. Now, do not say another 
word; for every word may bring you nearer 
a real danger.^’ 

So I sat in mute and dreadful wonder, trying to 
make ready,” if not for the scaffold, for some other 
horror that was making ready — knew now — 
for me. 

TJie hammering ceased; the noise of moving 


226 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


things — ^that had followed — the hurrying to and 
fro, ceased too. A whistle shrilly sounded; then 
was silence; then the mysterious woman led me 
hack to my own room. 

Where was my table? Where my easy chair? 
Where were the books? Where were the little 
things’' that were my own? My dressing-bureau 
was not there. The wardrobe door was open wider^ii, 
the wardrobe empty ! 

“ Woman ! ” I cried, in a loud whisper — ^that in my 
desperate fear had all the fierceness of a command 
— where have they taken all that was mine ? 
Where are they going, now, to take me ? ” 

Without a moment’s waiting, she stooped down 
and took from before my bed an ample rug. Again 
she stooped, and touched another thing — ^a door, a 
trap-door — ^newly made, that opened up with hinges 
— ^and I looked into a chasm of awful blackness ; 
while down, far down it seemed to me, a little burn- 
ing trembled, like the far off shining of a star seen 
through the gloom of night. 

You lie ! ” I cried, in tones that would have 
been a shriek, but that in very terror I had lost my 
voice. “ You said that in the place where I am' 
going, no greater ill could come to me than in the 
place where I have been ! It is a lie ! Here,^ 
I can see a little of the light of day ! Here, my 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


227 


friends will come one day to seek me! But thisj 
this yawning blackness — it is the passage to a tonib ! 
A tomb where I may live — ^who knows — ^but live 
deep buried from all life, and from the rea^ch of 
those who would bring me back to life !” 

Silence I ” she whispered. Bemember the 
iron cage!^^ Then added, seeing that terror held 
me dumb ; “ I swear to you, that if you be quiet, no 
harm will come to you ! Hark ! Do not be afraid ! 
she whispered low, as listening we heard the sound 
of footsteps that nearer came, and nearer. Then 
the door was opened, and I saw them once again — 
the florid faced, the dead white handed man 5 the: 
manlike woman, and the other monster. 

^^Do not be afraid!’^ Alas! even then the mir- 
rnr told me that my face was ashen white, while I 
felt a deadly faintness creep upon me. Yet I did 
not faint, nor cry aloud, nor make a sign of fear ; 
not then, nor when they seized me, and bore me 
down a long and dismal stairway. I only closed my 
eyes, and prayed, — 

O God — my Father ! Go with me where I am 
going ! Help me. Lord ! for now I know that where 
I shall be, no earthly help may come ! ” 

This, my calmness — ^was the end of hope ; this, my 
resignation — ^was despair. 

That which had seemed to me to be the glimmer 


228 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


of a star, ^ew larger and brighter as we came 
nearer to it. It was the light of a single lamp ; and 
when we reached the end of our descent, other lamps 
were lighted. Then they who had brought me here, 
went away — ^back by the uncertain stairway they 
had come — ^and I was left alone. 

Despair had banished fear ; the death of hope, all 
curiosity. I was only vaguely thankful to be left 
alone. They had placed me upon a bed, and I felt 
that it was comfortable ; and completely exhausted 
I fell asleep. When I awoke, the manlike woman 
had brought my breakfast. It was yet warm, and 
I knew then that I had slept long, and that it was 
morning. I had already known that I was under- 
ground, from which there was no egress save by 
the stairway — ^that now I saw was but a ladder — 
down which they had brought me. Turning low 
the light of each lamp, I found there was no light 
of day — save a few feeble rays that struggled 
through small openings far above me, that had been 
left above ground for ventilation. The four sides 
of the room were of fresh, unpainted boards. It had 
not been the making of a scaffold I had heard, in 
hearing sound of hammer and of saw — it was the 
making of a tomb in which to bury me alive. 

That was it. I knew it now, beyond a doubt. 
They meant to bury me away from all life, here. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


22D’ 

where ho one could find ine ; here, where those 
who would come to seek me, could not come*. 
And that they might not find a trace to tell them 
where I had been, all that belonged to me, all 
that I had touched or looked upon in my old prison, 
had been taken away, and was now a part of my 
new prison. 

However, when more than a week had passed 
away — a> week that seemed a month — found some- 
thing in a drawer of my bureau that had not been 
there before : it was a large supply of paper and pen- 
cils. I am sure the mysterious woman put them 
there. It is not,” I said, from pity, this their fear 
I shall go mad. They mean that I shall know, with 
a fuU sense, all that I suffer while I live. Ah well ! 
My life is not my own, that I may by my own hand 
hasten death. And here, within this tomb, no 
human thing if idly living could sanely live — and 
madness has too much of terror yet, for me to brave. 
So I will write; and in the pain of telling of the 
past, thus pay the price of living.”^ ^ 

****** 

So I have written — ^for long months I have 
written. For the most part I have been, happily, 
the sport of an illusion. I have forgotten myself 
while writing of myself. I have seemed to write 
of myself as of another self. I no longer feel for 


230 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


myselfj I no longer suffer for myself. I am dead. 
All that I have suffered has been for the other 
Ellinore, of whom I wrote. Nothing else but this 
illusion could have given me strength to write thus 
cl^rly and correctly all that I have witten. 

I had once, however, a horrible, experience; as 
if my body, tortured, mangled, and left for dead, 
had come back to life to rehearse, for one brief 
moment, all that it had suffered and endured. It 
was once — soon after they had buried me here — 
when I heard footsteps overhead. Not the steal- 
thy, cat-like walk of those who prowled about me 
in the day, and in the darkness of the night ; but 
a firm and manly tread of one whose deeds are 
honest. Climbing up the ladder I thought I heard 
a voice, and yet another — of the woman and the 
man I loved : but even as I heard and called aloud, 
the footsteps and the voices died away. It may 
have been a fancy, only — yet, why not the truth ? 
I knew that some time, if not then, that in their 
searching they would seek me where I had been — 
and, alas, go away, as they had gone, without me. 
And all that day, and night, I lay upon my 
face so hurt, so hurt, — ^that all the pain I had yet 
known, seemed to this pain, joy. But that too 
passed, and I became again my lifeless self. 

What if I should cease to write, and only think,' 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


231 


and think, until my poor, poor head would lose itself 
in the mad fancies of a mad hour ? I have seen poor 
delirious creatures live in fancy, and gayly live, in 
other places than they were. Alas ! I may he 
nearer madness than I know, that I have come to 
wonder if it were not better to be gayly mad, than 
take the chance of suffering more. No ! let me 
still write on; to my despair is added curiosity, 
a ghastly curiosity, to know, and sanely know, the 
dire experiences that may yet be mine before the 
end shalTcome. 


232 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


CHAPTER V. 

Aped. 1st. My manuscript has disappeared. I 
had kept it in my bed, beneath my pillow. But 
yesterday, not knowing what lo write, and think- 
ing I should have nothing more to write, I laid it 
in a drawer of my dressing-bureau. The mysterious 
woman has taken ifc, I am sure — ^as sure as I can 
be without knowing. Well, what matters it ? It — 
that which I have written — ^has served its purpose ; 
and the dire thing it saved me from, I need no 
longer fear — ^for I am too despairing, too lifeless to 
go mad. 

Apeil 4th. I only know by my calendar, that 
Spring has come. What have I now to write about ? 
My days and nights are all alike — all night, a long 
night of weariness and solitude. Now that I have 
told my story, the illusion — ^that I am another than 
myself — has vanished, and I am I — the despair- 
ing, the dead. 

Apeil 7th. A strange desire has come over me! 
a desire to see, not Courtney, not Mrs. Edmonds ; 
for it is that desire long ago believed unattainable, 
that makes now my deadness and my despair-— but 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


233 


a desire to see once more tlie white haired man; 
him who looked half like a captive, uncrowned king, 
and half a suffering and a pitying saint — ^the white 
haired man who stood behind the grating of his 
prison window, watching me as I, from my window, 
watched him. For his own sake, more than for my 
own, I wish that I could see him. He seemed so 
happy when I stood before him and so mourn- 
ful when I turned away; and something tells 
me he is always mournful now, since he has 
no more a sight of me. Perhaps he saw a likeness 
in my face to some one he has loved and lost; 
I know that could I think, my memory would, from 
somewhere in the past, call up the semblance of a 
face that I had seen like his. 

April 11th. i have been reading in my Bible, it 
is strange that they took it with the little things 
they brought -with me ! It proves that even devils 
believe there is a comfort that can come alone from 
God. I am an old fashioned Christian. That is, I 
believe in Bible reading and in prayer. And yet, 
through all these months of tomb-like living, I have 
not, until lately, opened once my Bible. O God — 

my Father ! Go with me where I am going ! ” So, 
in coming to this dark and lonely prison, I had 
prayed,; and since then I have prayed only from 


234 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


habit, and not with fervor, not with faith.’ Who 
can tell why — unless, that once here, I learned to 
think myself beyond the reach of God? But that 
can not be. He who is present everywhere, must 
be here too. Tortured Christians dying, yet rejoiced ; 
martyrs in crucial torment, looked in ecstacy 
toward Heaven. These had nothing from this world 
but pain. Whence then came their joy, but from 
Heaven? There lacks yet something in my believ- 
ing. I long too much for the Earth, and not enough 
for Heaven. Let me then read and pray with a 
new fervor, that I may find the joy those Christian 
martyrs found — ^the peace that is alone the gift of 
Heaven. 

April 25th. All this week, in my fancy, I have 
seen perpetually before my eyes the long grass and 
the flowers of Springtime. I keep wondering where 
they will bury me when I am gone. Whether it will 
be in some quiet spot, where the sunshine and the 
bright shadows may touch lingeringly my grave ; 
or whether it will be in the darkness of an unknown 
tomb — ^like this. But what will it matter ? I have 
found the peace that helps me to live as though I 
were already in another life. I think no longer 
of the past; and when I think of Courtney, it is 
with the thought that I shall see him next beyond 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


235 


ttie shadows and the suffering of this life. For I 
haye prayed to die. It is no sin to ask the God who 
gave us life, to take it to Himself again. And so 
I wait ; for in the presence of the peace that helps 
me to forget this life, 1 read the answer to my 
prayer; and one day — I think it will be soon — 
I shall lay me down to sleep for the last time in the 
darkness of this night, and waken else where to 
glad day. 

May 6th. Something has happened. I heard 
this morning the singing of a bird. Ho human 
tongue could tell the gladness and the good that 
singing brought to me ! Ho one could feel this glad- 
ness and this good, but one imprisoned like me. The 
bird was perched upon the grated opening far above 
me. It sang; I listened in mute ecstasy. Then it 
flew away ; and flying back, came through the grat- 
ing of my prison. Poor little frightened thing I It 
feared to stayg and wildly beat about the grating 
till at last it struck the small opening, and flew out. 
But something fluttering, fluttered down, and 
dropped upon my folded hands. It was a blade 
of grass — a green and dewy offering from the glad 
world without! I looked upon it, breathed its 
scented freshness, kissed its tender green, and 
through tears blessed the giver and the gift. 


23 ^ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


All day I have thought of nothing else, but of 
this bird — of its coming to me, its singing to me, 
its bringing to me the blade of grass. Here, in this 
buried prison, this is a strange thing to happen; 
and if others, who may read of it, may see in it no 
meaning — ^and it may have no meaning for me — 
I see in it a promise, as of old good Noah saw, that 
I shall look again upon the green and living earth. 

And what if it be no fancy, this I feel, but indeed 
a promise ? What if this strange peace, that lately 
has been mine, and that I have thought an answer 
to my prayer to save me from this dreadful dying, 
by death, is still an answer to my prayer to save 
me — ^but by another way than death ? O God of 
Heaven ! W^hat if Thou, who canst do all things, hast 
made a way through which I may walk out from 
this buried darkness, to live yet in the light and life 
this side of Heaven ! This is too much joy to fancy 
with these four dark walls about me ! And yet, I 
can not keep back — ^with other and sad fancies of 
sad facts — ^the feeble springing up of hope from the 
dust of my despair. 

How strange it is that I can hope ! I, that a little 
while ago seemed dead to all earthly hope ! So little 
do we know to-day what we may want to-morrow ! 
But yesterday it seemed so sweet to think that ere 
the morning I might die ; and now— I almost hope 
to live. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


237 


May 12th. Something else has happened — some- 
thing wondrous, wondrous strange ! I am no longer 
dead, no longer despairing, no longer unhappy ! This 
prison is no longer a tomb — it is a B«thel! I no 
longer pray to die — 1 thank God that He has heard 
my prayer in His own way, and let me live ! All 
through the months of faithless praying and mute 
despair, the Helper had not left me; it was only 
that I would not feel He must be near. So this, 
that I have written, may help some suffering and 
despairing one to pray — ^to pray, and, trusting, wait. 
For my suffering, f or which I saw no reason and no 
justice, was the way, God’s way, to bring me to a 
happiness and good I could have found no other 
way. 

This is what happened. Last evening, after my 
supper had been brought, and my mute attendant 
had left me for the night, I heard some one descend 
the ladder. Since the disappearance of the manu- 
script, I have thought the mysterious woman might 
come at any time ; so that it was she whom I ex- 
pected to sbe^ Down thie footsteps came, and 
nearer; then, it was not the silent, black-gowned 
woman that stood before me. It was a man ; the 
white haired stranger — him who looked half like 
a captive, uncrowned king, and half like a pitying 
saint. I had no Hiought of fear, no thought that 


238 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


lie was not as sane as I. I had so longed to look 
npon his face; so he had longed, I knew, to look 
on mine. It seemed quite natural we should seek 
each other, quite natural that he was there. But 
hov/ had he known where to find me, and knowing, 
how Eb come ? This I asked him as he stood 
before me, as I had always seen him stand — ^his 
small white hands meekly crossed before him. 

But there was no answer ; he only looked at me, 
tenderly, wistfully, while from his eyes, that I 
had only known as mournful, shone a strange and 
joyous light; and now that I saw him close, the 
likeness to some other one whom I had known, or 
seen, grew stronger and more puzzling. 

“Who are you? Where have I seen you — or 
another like you ? I asked, hot waiting for an 
answer to the question I had first asked. 

“ Ellinore ! ’’ he said in a sweet and trembling 
voice, laying his hands on mine ; while I, all tremb- 
ling at his touch, waited, breathlessly, the strange 
something I knew he had to say. “Ellinore,’^ I 
know your history; and, without your knowing 
that you know it, you know mine. I did not need to 
read what you have written, to know the truth. 
I saw it, felt it, each day that you stood behind the 
grating of your window, as I looked at you. Can 
you not guess my meaning now ? j 


THE DEVIL AND I. 239 

No ! ” I said, and wondering, waiting, gazed at 
him. 

Ellinore, the story — as you have written it — says 
that your father died in a madhouse. Poor man ! 
he was shut up 5 hut, child, he was not mad — he is 
not dead ! ” 

‘^What are you saying? What is your mean- 
ing ? ” I cried, and fell upon my knees before hini. 

Oh, have pity ! and do not kindle in my sad heart 
a hope tha.t he, my father, is not dead — if he be 
dead ! You ! you must know something of my 
father — ^to speak like this ! You — oh Heaven ! why 
are you so strangely near and dear to me ? Ah — ! 
who are you — who ? 

Give me your mother’s locket, Ellinore ! 

And straightway I took it from my neck. And 
long he gazed, and tenderly, upon the picture of my 
mother ; then, through tears, he looked at me, and 
murmured low, — 

Oh child, how much, how very much, you look 
like her — your mother ! ’’ 

And then, while I mute with wonder still tremb- 
ling knelt before him, he touched a hidden spring 
that opened— that which I had not known till then 
could open— the locket on the other side ; and with 
a pin he raised the frail glass from its corering, 
and took from its hiding— wdiere it had lain so long 


240 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


iinlooked upon — a. tress of hair; and as from his 
lifted hand it fell, a floating curl of silken softness,' 
he placed its blackness against the blackness of my 
hair, and murmured yet again, — 

It is the same ! I knew it at the first sight of 
you behind your prison window. It is the same hair 
as hers — your mother’s.’’ 

Within the locket where the hair had rested, I 
read the words — From Ellinore to Keginald : ” then 
followed the month and date of the year. Quick as 
I read, he took from his own neck a locket, precisely 
like the locket that I wore ; and opening it, he took 
from it a little curl of glossy blackness, and placing 
it upon the snowy whiteness of his own, he said, — 

^^My hair was once like this — this little curl I 
gave your mother.” And following still his eyes 
that looked within the locket, I read — “From Eeg- 
inald to Ellinore,” and the same date of month and 
of year that I had read in mine — my mother’s locket. 

“ And you — and you — ! ” I gasped, dizzy and faint 
with the bliss of a hope that waited only for one 
word to know its truth. 

I am Reginald Trevalyn ! I AM youe FATHEE, 
Ellinore ! As sure as we both look upon the pict- 
ured face of her who was your mother, of her who 
was my wife — I am your father !” 

• ****** 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


241 


From a long embrace close to bis heart, my father 
gently raised me; and making bare his bosom, he, 
showed me the little, blood-red cross — ^his birth- 
mark, born with him — and below the cross, the 
anchor made by his mother. Then we both were 
silent. The time was too sweetly solemn, yet, for 
words — save that from .time to time my heart, to 
try the newness of its joy, breathed from my lips 
the one word, — Father ! ’’ while from his came 
softly back, — ^^^my child!’’ 

Father,” I said, at last, ^Hhe locket that you 
have, you had given to my mother ; the one I wear, 
is yours : why have I not the other, and you this ? ” 
Dear, when your mother died, I placed the locket 
that I wore, about your neck, that I might see her 
face with yours, always before me; and the crea- 
ture who stole you, stole, too, the locket. She might 
have taken the other — ^the locket that I gave to 
your mother — for it was there, upon my dressing- 
bureau; but that she hated me too much to look 
upon my face, and, fearing, would never let you 
look.”' 

^^Your likeness father — in the locket that you 
wear, in the locket that I saw ? Oh, let me see you 
as you were — ^young and joyous, like my mother ! ” 
No, my child, not now; but surely at so%e other 
time. Be patient, dear, and wait.” 


242 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Alas !” I thought, ‘Ms face that is so noble and 
so sweet to me, must have sadly changed through all 
the years of pain and solitude; so much changed, 
he cannot to bear to look with me upon himself as he 
was in that happy time.” 

“ Father, I would not have you other than you are. 
I love you like this,” I said, — and kissed his snow 
white hair. And smiling, he made no answer. 

“'Father,” again I questioned, “does Marcus 
Pancho know that you are here, and that you are 
my father?” 

“No, child, he does not know me even as I am 
known here, norsas your father. He believes me dead, 
as you believed me. It was the wisdom only of an 
ever loving God, that led the mind of him who means 
your ruin, to bring you here to this Asylum, instead 
of to another ; it was the gracious will of pCeaven, 
that made the evil of your enemy to be your good.” 

“ Then it was you, my father, and not the unknown 
woman, that took the manuscript? But how did 
you know that I was here? How could you come 
to me? Why are you no longer shut up as — I 
paused, then added — ^“as I am?” 

“ Poor child ! You were about to say — ^ as all are 
shut up in this mad-house — all whom they believe 
mad ! But let me answer, without your asking, all 
the questions that you might ask. And first : it was 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


243 


slie whom you call the ‘ unknown woman/ and not 
I, who took your manuscript. She came to this 
Asylum about the time, I think, that you were 
brought here ; for I saw her first within your room, 
one morning as she took the grating from your wim 
dow. It was later, that same morning, that I saw 
you ; and, Ellinore, at that first sight of you, who are 
the living image of your mother, I felt the truth — 
that you were mine, my daughter. The creature who 
had stolen you, and put me here, had told me yoju 
were living — ^living to know her as your mother, and 
to believe your father dead; and that one day you 
should be here too, in this dreadful place, impris- 
oned, as I was, for life. And when I saw you before 
your window — Si vision, I first thought, of my dead 
EUinore — so near, and yet so helplessly apart from 
jme ; so near me — ^your father, Ellinore, your father, 
who could not speak to you, who could not make a 
sign, lest he should frighten you, or lest some watch- 
ing keeper should take from him the joy of seeing 
you — then divined the truth : that the cruel fiend 
had kept her word, and that her vengeance was 
complete. 

You must have felt — for you have written it down 
—the mournful pleasure that I found in watching 
you. When your face showed signs of suffering, 
you must have seen, in mine, that I too suflered, for 


244 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


your sake. The first days that I missed you from 
your window, were hours for me of sickening terror 5 
lest you — too innocent to know the cunning of the 
way to make your keepers think you harmless — ^were 
tortured, or ill, or despairing, or had died. And 
when the days of a whole week passed without one 
sight of you, I girew ill — so ill, they must have 
thought it wise to send your ^ unknown woman ’ to 
me. It was then that she saw the locket ; and it was 
then that she plied me with strange questions. And 
so I camo to tell her who I was, and — when I found 
she did not believe me crazy — ^the story of my life, 
as you, Ellinore, have written it. I did not teU her, 
then, that you were my daughter, nor that my illness 
was for your sake. I was afraid — she seemed so 
cold, so hard — that the telling might do harm to you. 
I only said that I had seen you, pitied you, and 
pissed you from your window— this, in the hope that 
she would tell me something of you. She only said 
that you were elsewhere in this Asylum, — that is 
for you and me a prison — ^and that you were com- 
fortable, and that you were well. And then she left 
me ; and in aU the weeks that followed, I saw her not, 
until about six weeks ago, when she came again, in 
strange excitement, to my room, and with feverish 
haste asked if I bore the marks of a cross and anchor 
upon my breast; and when for my answer I had 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


245 


shown them to her — that with her own eyes seeing 
she might heUeve — she asked me what had been the 
color of my hair, and how I had looked when I was 
young. And when, again for my answer, I told her 
to look upon the picture of myself within this locket 
— she had only seen the outside, in seeing it weeks 
before — she grew deadly pale, and with a smothered 
cry put the manuscript within my hands ; the manu- 
script that told the story of your life — as you have 
written it — ^and of Marcus Pancho’s, and of mine. 

It is this mysterious woman, Ellinore, who, by the 
adroitness of her management, has found a way to 
bring me here. She has become, for some reason 
unknown to you and me, your friend and mine. She 
will lead us both from this living death, to the outer, 
living life.’’ 

“Wliy,” I asked, in sudden fear, thinking how 
poor our chance of escape might be, if it must 
depend alone on her; ‘‘why has this woman come 
here—for if it be as you say, she was not here 
before I came? I know she helped to bring me 
here, and that she was not then my friend. Why 
is she now your friend, and mine ? But even if 
her heart has grown pitying ; even should she find 
a way to take us from this prison ; who can save me 
— ^and you, once he knows you — from the deadly ven- 
geance of Marcus Pancho ?” 


246 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Why she came, your ‘ unknown woman,’ I do not 
know. I only sus])ect; that she came, as sent Fy 
Marcus Pancho, to guard you from your keepers, 
to keep you sulfering, and yet unharmed, for some 
new vengeance he thinks yet within his wicked soul 
to wreak upon you. It may be, Ellinore, that this 
woman,— who I suspect is one that you know, one 
;whom, from your manuscript, I might name — ^heTs 
blindly served the will of Marcus ; and that only 
thro.ugh what you have written, she has learned at 
last to know hini as he is, and that she has herself 
a wrong trom liim to avenge. However this may 
be, my daughter, I feel i;hat we may surely count 
upon her; and that for some secret reason, and 
more for her own sake than for yours or mine, she 
will not fail to help us from this — our prison. And 
when he comes, this Marcus Pancho, she has 
promised to bring him face to face with me; and 
for the rest — ^wait Ellinore ; we have our secret, — 
this ^ unknown woman ’ and I. You can do nothing 
yet to help us, but, trusting, to wait.” 

‘/Father, what does she look like, this woman 
—whom, seeing always in disguise, I have not yet 
seen ? ” 

"My father’s latest words about the mysterious 
:woman, had put a strange fancy in my head ; a fancy 
that I saw my father shared; for, to my sudden 


THE DEVIL AND I. 247 

question, his answer came with a smile that had 
a meaning, — 

“ The woman is still young, and wears the manners 
of a lady — ^but she is not handsome. She looks a 
disappointed, desperate woman. An unnatural red- 
ness burns upon her cheek, and a fierce light flashes 
from her eyes — ^as though she nursed within her 
mind some purpose of revenge.^^ 

Here we heard the muffled tinkling of a bell, 
that came from the vaulted darkness dverheadi 
And at the sound my father kissed me, hastily 
arose, and whispering that to-morrow he would come 
again, rapidly ascended the ladder, and disappear-ed. 

I knew, without his saying it, that it was the 
unknown woman that had given the signal, and that 
she had waited for him in my room above. “A 
disappointed, desperate woman, my father had 
said : who perhaps has blindly served tEe will of 
]VIai*cus Panchd; and who, in reading wha^ you 
have written, has learned at last to know him as 
he is, and that she has herself a wrong from him to 
avenge.” Who else could she be, but — no, I will 
not say her name, — not yet. Why have I not from 
the first — why have I not always thought of her? 

‘^Once, I heard her voice; ^Ellinore’ she called 
me, and it was the voice — that I felt then, 
that I know now, I had heard somewhere, at some 


248 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


other time — that made me turn, and turning, they 
had seized me, and had brought me here. I know 
now why I have never seen her face, and whj^ 
save that one time, I have heard only in whispers 
her voice. Poor soul ! What could she do — she 
of whom I think — ^allied to Marcus Pancho, but 
^‘blindly serve his will,’^ while, to serve his own 
j^urpose, he seemed yet to love her, yet to be kind 
to her? WHiat could she become, but a “disap- 
pointed, desperate woman,” once she had learned 
to know him as he is ? The longer I think upon 
this— that I have named a “ strange fancy — ” the 
more I feel that it is not a fancy, but the truth. 

May 20th. Every day, at the same hour, my 
father has been with me. We have so much to say, 
that we never cease talking. He likes best to talk 
of my mother ; I too like it best. And I keep think- 
ing, that if we could see as angels see, we should see 
her too, my mother, here with us : this thought, 
with my father’s tenderness in every glance, in 
every word, makes me forget tEat all my life I was 
an orphan. 

It is so strange and sweet to have a father, and 
to know I had a good and loving mother ! It is such 
happiness to have a name, to have the right to be 
called Ellinore Trevalyn — and not the “ miser’s 
daughter ! ’’ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


249 


Each time I look upon my father, each time I 
hear him speak, I know yet better why my mother 
loYed him so — and why the other woman hated : it 
is so much to have his love — ^he gives in loving so 
much good ; and not to have it, is so much to lose. 

May 21st. I am almost sure that I have solved 
the mystery of the black-gowned woman ; and that 
she is — and yet, I will not name her. She was here 
last night. The lamp was burning low; but I 
could see that she still wore the curious gown with 
its hood drawn over her face. Now that I suspect 
who she is, her walk, her every movement seems 
familiar. Once had a mind to speak, to call her 
by the name I think is hers ; but with that mind 
I had another — yet to wait ; to know first, in some 
other way, something more of her. And while she 
stood still a moment, listening, I made no move- 
[ment; but with soft and long drawn breathing 
feigned to be asleep, and from the half darkness 
where I lay, I watched her. She placed something 
upon my bureau ; then stood silent and motionless 
— a silhouette against the shaded radiance of the 
lamp. What were her thoughts, as she waited there 
in the silence of my prison ? They were not happy 
ones, I know; for a deep sigh, most like a sob, 
came to my ear ; and then she glided like a sombre 
spectre through my room, and out of sight 


250 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


When she had gone, I opened the parcel, and found 
the manuscript and a letter from my father. He 
will not he here to-day — so the letter says. ^‘Not 
till the unknown woman,’ who goes away to-mor- 
row — for your sake, my daughter, and for mine — 
shall return.” This dear, first letter fom my father, 
I have placed beside the first — that was my last — 
letter from Courtney ; both letters nearest — ^as they 
who wrote them are themselves the dearest — ^to my 
heart. 

Since the first day that I found my father, in obe- 
dience to his wish, I have asked no questions about 
our near future ; and I know nothing of the plans 
for our escape. But he, my father, says — and I 
know he would not say it if it were not true — ^that 
we shall soon be free; and it is impossible, now, 
to think of anything else but of a future of love and 
happiness with my father, and Courtney, and Mrs. 
Edmonds. 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


251 


CHAPTER yiJ 

May 29th. It is she! I have seen her, I have 
talked with her ! She has just gone away, and I 
am not sure that I am able to quiet my mind or my 
body, sufficiently to write intelligibly all that has 
happened, and all that has been told to me ! 

I have not written in my journal since the day 
I received my father^s letter. I have been too 
anxious, too unhappy, until now, to write. How 
thankful I am to be again glad ! This last week of 
new loneliness and of new pain, has assured me 
that one is not always dead to suffering when one 
believe one’s self to be; but that one has only 
to be again glad, to feel again much suffering. 

When the first days had passed without seeing 
my father, I became alarmed, and unhappy; and 
each added day that marked his absence, added yet 
another fear, another pain, until this morning — 
when my alarm was terror, my pain torture. The 
continued absence of my father assured me that 
the woman, who was our friend, had not yet returned 
— for it was through her help alone that my father 
could come to me. ‘^What if something has hap- 


252 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


pened to her to prevent her return ? What if she 
should die— has died ? What if we should be found 
out before our safety can be assured? What if I 
should never again see this woman, never again 
see my father ? What, oh what, if I am yet to live 
within this darkness — yet to die within this pris- 
on ? ’’ These, and a host of other terrifying thoughts 
— once they began to come — came hurrying one upon 
another, until my poor heart was tortured with a 
dread, that in all its suffering days had not been 
more unbearable. And then she came — ^the black- 
gowned woman — and like a straying and bewild- 
ered child, who sees at last a loving mother who 
has come to seek l so I, too glad for words, fell down 
sobbing at her feet. 

Kise, Ellinore ! It is not weU that you should 
kneel to such as I ! But that I, low kneeling at your 
feet, should here confess the wrong that I have 
done, and beg forgiveness — if a human heart can 
pardon such as I. Your pity, although I need pity 
t more than you, I can not ask it — ^I, who withheld 
all mine from you.’’ 

And with these words, she — ^who was no longer 
unknown to me — ^with her own strength raised me 
up ; and falling down before me with bowed head, 
she threw the hood back from her face, took from 
her head its false grey covering, and from her eyes 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


253 


the colored glasses ; and stiU kneeling, with 
clasped hands, and eyes down-looking, waited. 

Mabel ! Mabel Livingston ! It is then you — 
indeed you ! You who have wronged, so much, the 
friend who best loved you 

Even while she knelt before me; even while I 
guessed the wretched blindness that had made her 
what she was ; even with tears in my eyes, and with 
pity in my soul — could not keep from these, my 
first words to her, the sting of a rei)roach. But 
following this, without waiting for her answer, 
I laid my hands upon her still bowed head, and said, 
in a voice she could not take for other than of pity, — 

“ But, Mabel, I forgive you ! In pity for the much 
you must have suffered ere you went so far astray I 
in pity now, still more, that you see with unblinded 
eyes the hideous thing you bought with a woman’s 
richest price — ^your virtue and your affection — • 
Mabel, I forgive you!” 

At last the bowed head raised ; at last the eyes, 
long hidden, looked at me; at last I saw her as 
she was — Mabel, yet not Mabel ! The change was 
frightful. The face was most like marble, so cold 
it seemed to look upon, and colorless — save for a 
fevered spot that burned on either cheek. The 
lines about the mouth traced the grown hardness 
of the wronged and embittered soul within ; and 


254 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


from her eyes flashed the light of a flxed purpose 
— a wild, flerce light, such as I should expect to see 
look from the strange vision of poor delirious souls 
that are enchained about me, somewhere in this 
prison. 

Poor soul ! I said, I know your mournful story,' 
with its cruel torment, before you tell it; and no 
harsher words than I have spoken, shall I yet speak ! 
You have my pity, Mabel, I repeat; you have my 
pity for the pain you must have suffered, ere your 
heart grew hard enough to help to bring me so much 
pain.’’ 

^^Ellinore,” she answered, with out a tremor in 
her voice, without a dimming of the eyes, to teU 
me that from her poor seared heart 1 had drained 
one drop of the old time feeling ; Ellinore, if my 
eyes had not outwept their power to weep ; now, 
seeing your saint like pity, I should weep with you ; 
if I yet could feel, I should now feel the deepest 
gratitude a soul can feel, for this, your much for- 
giveness. But, I can not weep ; I have no feel- 
ing — save a deep, a perpetual longing for revenge.” 

And with these words the strange light in her 
eyes glowed yet more flercely, and for a moment 
she forgot, in the dark-broodings of her one desire, 
my presence ; and then again remembering, she com 
tinned, — 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


255 


Ellinore, as I live, I tell you true : I can no 
longer feel, save in the memory of pain that I 
have felt. I have no pity in my heart, save a 
strange pity for myself. What I have lately done 
for you, what I shall yet do, is from duty — for your 
sake; and for my own sake — ^I’evenge. But we 
have no time for sentiment. Let me tell the story — 
that I must tell, and that you must hear — ^as briefly 
as I can. 

Ellinore, from the first hour that I saw Marcus 
Pancho, when he came so suddenly before us in the 
Art-gallery, I loved him with a mad idolatry. I had 
always, in my heart, an intense desire to be loved ; 
and believing mjself unlovable, and that your 
regard for me — like that of my parents — had more 
of pity than of love, I was a fit subject for the 
wicked cunning of the fiend — ^that I then believed 
was more of angel than of man — ^who chose me for 
his victim. iYou must know how easy it was, for 
such as he, to make my will no longer mine, but 
his. I saw only as he declared he saw ; I believed 
only as he assured me he believed; and the first 
moment we were left alone, he told me that he loved 
me, even as I loved him. And at that moment he also 
assured me that I must keep our love a secret from 
you, and from every one ; that once it was known, 
he should be forced to leave me, forced to deny 


256 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


I 


our love. That was enough ; no torture could have 
made me show a sign of my own loving, or of his 
love. 

His own management, and the confidence of my 
parents in him, furnished us a thousand ways, 
when you were not with us, to be left alone 
together, and to enjoy, as we might wish, our lov- 
ing. When my parents went away — for the first 
time without me — trusting me wholly to your car^, 
we m(5t every day, Marcus and I, during the two 
hours you were not with me. It was then that he 
told me th.:t he was bound by a solemn oath — an oath 
that to break would bring him ruin and dishonor — 
to marry another, or not to marry at all ; and that 
if he married me, it must be secretly, and when we 
were both far away from the presence and the 
knowledge of all who had ever known us. After 
that it was easy to persuade me to go with him, 
to leave my home and all whom I had known, for 
his sake — for love of him. And we had appointed 
a day of the following week for our flight, when 
the arrival of a telegram, that fatal afternoon, 
announced the unexpected return of my parents 
that evening. I had just left you, and going up 
the steps to my father's house, it was I who took 
the telegram — which I destroyed — from the boy. 
As soon as I had made known to Marcus — whom 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


257 


a few minutes later I met, as usual, for our secret 
rendezYous — ^the contents of the telegram, he 
decided that we must go that afternoon : and that 
I should go at once to your room, and still 
guarding carefully our secret from you, should wait 
there for him ; and that when he would come, I 
should learn something that would surprise me. 

You remember when I came to your room that 
afternoon, and of my manner towards you ? I had 
always been cautious when with you, but then, I 
felt sad at the thought that I should pain you in 
leaving you without a word of explanation, and at 
the thought that I might never again see you ; and 
I betrayed this sadness by my unusual warmth of 
manner towards you, and in my words to you ; and 
I do not know what would have been the result of 
your questioning, had not Marcus come at that 
moment. It was then that your manner surprised 
me. For how could I have known — ^who had never 
known of youi^ malady — that the sudden striking 
of the gong — ^that he said he had brought as a gift 
to you— had put you to sleep? And imagine my 
astonishment, Ellinore, to find that after your first 
apparent displeasure at his coming, unannounced, 
to learn a moment later, from your own lips, that 
it was you that had brought about my first meet- 
ing with Marcus in the Art-gallery ; and that you 


258 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


knew of our secret meeting each, day — ^all this you 
made known to me then, in response to questions 
that Marcus asked you. My astonishment still con- 
tinued, when — after Marcus had explained his plan 
for our flight, and asked you to help us — you did 
quietly, without any apparent emotion either of 
regret or of surprise all that he directed you to 
do. 1 had no time to question you, as I desired to 
do I Marcus would not permit me to do so. He 
said we had no time to lose, and that every moment 
lost to us would he a help to my parents in their 
search for us. 

You know the rest : except, you do not know that 
when we left your room — you and I, and Marcus — 
the last time, we had only gone a short distance 
from the house when Marcus stopped tlie carriage, 
saying that it might he more prudent for me to go 
alone to the place designated hy him, and that he 
should return with you to your room, and leaving 
you there — so as to prevent suspicion — ^he would 
rejoin me an hour later. It must have heen then, 
Ellinore, while you were alone with Marcus, that 
you wrote the fatal letter — ^unconsciously, and at 
his dictation — ^that he afterwards gave to me, and 
which was the cause of all your suffering — so far 
as I am responsible for it — ^and, who knows, per- 
haps of mine. That same night, in stooping down. 


THE DEVIL AND L 


259 


adroitly stooping, the letter dropped — ^as he meant 
for it to do — ^from his pocket. I saw the address — 
the seal was yet unbroken — and that it was your 
writing. Keaching down, I picked it up ; not think- 
ing that I might not open and read, with him, a let- 
ter written by you. The slight embarrassment, 
the hesitation — ^all that he knew so well to feign, to 
keep the letter from me — surprised me: and, you 
know the rest : because he seemed to make a secret 
of the letter, I would see it. And here it is, EUinore, 
that letter. No, let me read it to you ; you, in your 
indignation, will be too long in reading it ! \ 

‘Dear Marcus: — ^Y ou wiQ read this — for you 
have promised not to read it until you are far from 
me — when it will be too late to save her, whom you 
love, from ruin. Too late ; for once she has been, 
of her own will, your mistress^ she will not leave 
you when she knows she can not be — ^as she must 
hoi)e to be — your wife. 

I too love you, even as you love Mabel. Once you 
loved me, and then — ^you hated. You refused to 
take me with you, even as you now take Mabel ; and 
this is my revenge for your little love of me ; this — 
that I know you cannot make the woman you love, 
your wife ; that you will not, for your own safety, 
do it. Tell her this — her whom you love — ^with 


260 


THE DEVIL AND I 


your arms about her, and with a loving kiss to make* 
each word less cruel. Tell her, too — that which 
you yourself have not suspected — ^that my seeming 
to be good to her, with you, was only for a purpose ; 
that only for ambition’s sake, I, knowing all about 
your loving, seemed to her not to know ; and that 
ambition, only, has given me coura^ to let her go 
with you, even as your mistress — for to gain, as I 
hope to do in losing her, I must lose you. She will 
understand, then, my silence and my reserve at the 
last hours of your going — ^when, against my will, 
you told her I knew all. You had promised not to 
teU ; not till you had read this letter, that I told 
you I should, at the last moment of your going, 
give you ; this letter, which, if you keep your word, 
you will only read when you are far away with 
Mabel.’ 

Ellinore, for a little while I think that I was mad. 
‘Marcus Pancho ! ’ I cried, in a voice that sounded 
strange and awful to me, ‘ Have you and this Elli- 
nore both deceived me — ^both plotted for my ruin? 
Is this the woman to whom you are bound by an 
oath to marry — or not at all to marry? What is 
the secret of her strange power over you ? What is 
the meaning of her dreadful letter ? What will she 
gain in losing me, that gives her courage to lose you ? 

‘ Sweet Mabel ! ’ he answered, in a voice so mourns 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


26 i 


fill and so sweet, it made me shiver in the pain of 
wishing I might never want to hear it more. 
‘ Sweet Mabel ! that woman holds the proofs of my; 
disgrace, and of my mother’s. My mother was a 
dishonored woman ^ dishonored first, when she was 
a young and virtuous woman, by him who after- 
wards, happily wed, was Ellinore’s father. While 
she, my ruined mother, doomed to a life of sin, 
brought me forth, a child — ^not of him who had first 
with vows of love betrayed her ; but of — alas ! my 
mother herself knew not of whom — a nameless, 
unknown father. I was given When a infant to a 
wealthy lady j and in the town where she came with 
me, the people believed I was, by right of birth, 
this woman’s child. To the same town had come, 
unknown, my wretched, real mother ; who, by some 
strange fate— the parents having died — ^had gotten 
possession of Ellinore, the child of him who had 
first betrayed her, and whom she had hated. The 
little world about us believed her my own mother’s 
child — ^the child of the woman no one knows as my 
mother. And Ellinore does not know the truth. 
Bhe knows not that to hate alone she is indebted 
for her wretched mother; nor why that mother 
hates her, nor why I hate. As we grew older, Elli-, 
nore — notwitstanding the difference in our position, 
and her knowledge of my dislike of her — conceived a 


262 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


passionate liking for me. But I, wlio knew the 
truth — ^that but for her father, who had taught my 
mother first to sin, that mother might have been a 
loved and honored woman, and I the child of a 
known father — I, still hated. 

It was at this time that she got possession of the 
proofs of my illegitimate birth, and of the fact that 
the. woman who hates her is not her mother. And 
in my terror lest she would do, as she declared she 
would, make public my mother’s disgrace — ^that 
mother whom in secret I loved — ^as weU as my own 
disgrace ; and in my dread too of poverty — ^for the 
woman who had been known as my mother had died 
without a will ; and as her son I of course claimed 
the first right of inheritance; but which, if the 
truth were known, I could no longer claim — in my 
terror at the prospect of all this, and at the demand 
of EUinore, who never forgave my want of love for 
her, I bought her silence by a solemn oath — ^as I 
would never consent to marry her — ^never to marry 
another. 

But, Mabel, I was not knowing more than you, 
tliat EUinore was deceiving us. I thought she had 
changed in the years since I had known her, and 
that in her pity for me — ^knowing my love for you 
— she was sincere in the aid she was aU the time, 
unknown to you, giving us ; and, as she says — ^and 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


263 


simply because she asked it — promised not to tell 
you, until later, of this aid. But, at the last moment 
— ^when we had decided upon that afternoon for our 
flight — ^fearing some deception on her part, I told 
you, in her presence, the truth ; so that she, in help- 
ing us in the preparations for our flight, might be in 
our power, should she subsequently betray us. You 
noticed her silence and her reserve during these 
preparations ; and it was when I went back with her 
to her room, leaving you in the carriage, that she 
gave me the letter that you have just read, and 
which I promised not to read until we were far 
away. You know that the letter was unopened when 
it dropped from my pocket; and although my expe- 
rience in the past prevented me from having entire 
confidence in her protestations of good feeling 
toward me, yet, I assure you, I am as much aston- 
ished as you are, at the thoroughly malicious and 
revengeful spirit of the letter. But I am thankfiil 
we have read it : tor, Mabel, I understand now her 
apparent goodness to you and to me. It was, as she 
says — ^wholly for the sake of ambition. She meant, 
in getting rid of you without compromising herself, 
to possess, to a still greater degree than she already 
possesses, the esteem and affection of your* par- 
ents; to make herself necessaiy to them; to win 
completely from them the favor that you have never 


2G4 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


received, and which, disgraced and dishonored — ^as 
you will henceforth be designated by them — you 
can never hope to receive ; in short, she expects to 
be received, in your stead, by your father and 
mother, as their daughter, and consequently to enjoy 
all the advantages that the home and the affection 
of your parents can bestow.’’ 

^ She shall not ! She shall not ! ’ I cried in a fren- 
zied way. ‘ I will go to my father and mother — you 
will go with me to them ! I will confess my error 
and beg their forgiveness — ^you will confess yours, 
and beg too, to be forgiven ! You will marry me 
with their consent — for they love you ! Then let 
this wicked Ellinore tell the truth — w^e can tell it 
too! The shame of your birth is not your fault. 
We can go away, as we were going to do, where no 
one will know us ! What if you shall be poor ? My 
father will give me enough for us both ! Come, let 
us go I What if we shall be disgraced — what if we 
should be banished ? Ellinore will be disgraced and 
banished too ! What if we must suffer ? Ellinore 
shall suffer too ! ’ 

‘ Mabel, my love, you must not go ! ’ And kneeling 
down he clasped his arms about me. ^You must 
not leave me ! I cannot give you up ! And it would 
come to this — that I should be forced to leave you. 
It would come to this, too — as it is now — ^that you 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


265 


would leave all to follow me, to be with, me — ^my 
love, my life. Dor I could not, for my mother’s sake, 
more than for my own, bear the disgrace of my 
birth, once it is known ; and should we return to do 
as you, not knowing what you say, now wish to do, 
Ellinore would make it known. I should not then 
be able to take care of you should you wish to go 
with me. I should be penniless; and I know not 
how to work. You are wrong, my Mabel, all wrong, 
in thinking that your parents would pity us. They 
would never permit me to marry you, once knowing 
my disgrace. And you, Mabel, they might forgive 
you, but they would never forget. They are too 
proud. You know how smaU has been their love for 
you, and smaller yet their pride in you ; and that 
your presence would always speak to them of your 
dishonor. For, dear, although you are not yet my 
wife, you have been a wife to me. You know this, 
and they will know it too. No ! my Mabel, there is 
a better way. We will go away together — ^as we 
have planned to do — to some land where we may live 
unnoticed and unknown ; and, who knows, but that 
time, or death, may rid me of my enemy, and that 
then you will not only be my love, but you will be my 
wife ? The revenge you covet — and that I covet too, 
with you — ^we will have another way. Ellinore,— 
who hopes to gain, by your misfortune, a reward rich 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


2m 

enough to compensate her for the pain of knowing 
that I love you, — shall he unmasked before your 
parents, whom she expects so largely to deceive, 
and will be despised by them: she shall go from 
their hearts and home — ^in which she hoped to reign 
— banished by them, and in disgrace. Come, Alabel, 
my love ! I will dictate, and you will write the 
letter that will make, believe me, your revenge 
complete.’ 

For a little while I stood, not yet persuaded to 
his way. I yet believed in God, in Heaven — ^and the 
Angel strove with me. I knew, even in my mad 
thinking, that it would be better to turn back ; to 
seek my home, and pardon from my parents j and in 
good deeds, in penitential tears, in a henceforth 
virtuous life, atone for what I had done, and secure 
a peace of conscience I could only in that way 
secure. But Marcus still knelt before me; and to 
his pleading, seeing I waited, added yet his tears. 
Tears, Ellinore, in the eyes of him v/hose heart is 
adamant ! Again he touched upon, until it bled, the 
sorest wound I cari'icd, — ^the sense within my heart 
that felt the small affection of my parents for me. 
He pictured my life henceforth with them, still less 
loved than I had been, and condemned and pitied by 
every one ; all this, and more, that I should suffer 
without the solace of his presence or his love. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


267 


So I listened to his tender pleading, so I yielded 
to his soft caressing ; ,and from that hour all good 
died in my heart, and evil only staid with me. 
Again I read your letter — ^the letter that made a 
fiend of me — ^and many times again, until from each 
word that burned its dreadful meaning into my 
anguished mind, flamed up a flerce desire to be a 
curse, so long as you and I should live, upon your 
pathway. 

And then Marcus dictated, and I wrote, the letter 
that so much surprised you. Marcus had kept 
watch of your movements, and he managed to send 
,the letter while you were in the presence of my 
father, knowing that in his indignation he would 
give you the letter to read. We knew all that hap- 
pened in regard to you. And I had still greater 
confidence in the judgment of Marcus, when — ^after 
he had assured me that you would invent some 
clever story, to excuse your apparent knowledge and 
approval of our flight — 1 found that he had judged 
you correctly. But I was not prepared for the 
extraordinary explanation you gave of your con- 
duct ; and I was still more embittered towards you 
for what, I then believed, was an other revelation 
of your malicious cunning and wickedness. 

Ellinore, see what your unfortunate malady has 
done for me ! For .had it not been yours, this mah 


268 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


ady, or liad you told me that it was yours — ^who 
knows, but that Marcus would have been found 
some other way, without me, without my ruin and 
suffering, to work his wicked will with you ? 

In time, — rafter you had gone — ^we went away; 
but not as Marcus had promised — ^to some ‘far off 
land, where we might live unnoticed and unknown ; ^ 
but from place to place, and never far from you. 
When Marcus thus staid, although I linew it was 
for vengeance, I doubted. In losing faith in you, 
Ellinore, I lost faith in all humanity. And although 
then, when I was wholly dependent upon the love of 
MaVcus, I loved him more than ever, I had no longer 
a full faith in him. I was not happy after our 
flijght — ^not even in the first days of our loving. He 
had deceived me once, in regard to you, and he had 
not kept his promise to go away with me ; and I 
was always afraid of being again deceived, and of 
making unhappy discoveries. This fear made me 
suspicious, and often fault-finding. It is thus that 
our wrong doing makes us afflict, with the wrong, 
ourselves. 

And Marcus could not always, even in those first 
months, present the false appearance with which 
he had first won me ; and at times he was irritable, 
at others cold, sometimes cruel. But if he left me, 
from time to time, he always came back ; and each 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


269 


return was followed by an increase of loving, and 
a manner more caressing. And it was these times 
of his loving, that held me always his still obedient, 
his still adoring slave. I know now, in recalling 
them — ^with the help of what you have written — 
that these best moments preceded, every time, some 
use he had to make of me. For that is what I was 
for him — even as you have said I must be, to be his, 
— a tool with which to torture you ; a tool that he 
might use when so it pleased him, or abuse. 

We, or rather Marcus, kept watch of you. I 
learned of you only through him; and now I know 
that only sometimes it was the truth he told me, 
and oftener not; and that he colored all he said 
and did, with the deceit best suited to insure my 
blindness and the revenge he wished to bring about. 
But we were one in our hate of you, and in our desire 
to take all happiness from you. You loved Geor- 
gine Ellerton; not falsely — ^as I believed you had 
loved me — ^but with the unselfishness of a sincere 
and deep affection. I helped Marcus in the dread- 
ful scheme that took your friend from you, and 
left you daft for thirteen months; for I believed 
you daft — knew nothing yet of your strange mal- 
ady. 

During those thirteen months, Marcus — ^known 
then as Oscar Lyndhurst — was not, as Mrs. Edmonds 


270 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


believed, far away from you; but near you — first 
in the West, then in the East, and then abroad. 
Wherever they went with you, Marcus followed; 
sometimes alone, sometimes with me. He, as Oscar 
Lyndhurst, received all of Mrs. Edmonds’ letters — ^to 
which he made no answer — direct from the lawyer 
through which she sent them ; wdio, paid by Marcus,' 
deceived her too:. When Marcus received the letter 
from Courtney Ellerton, he saw fit to answer with 
his presence; coming in haste ^from Algiers,’ so 
he said; but he had not, for months, left London. 

You were right, Ellinore, in your conclusion — 
that Marcus came to help to bring you back to con- 
scious life, that he might bring you to a greater 
pain. During the months that followed your awak- 
ening, Marcus was more loving than ever to me, 
and more thoughtful in his care of me. He hinted 
of a time when I should be his wife ; when he should 
be free to marry me ; of a time when you would 
be powerless to keep us apart; and better yet — 
that while we should be happy, you would be very 
unhappy; and that you could never be the wife 
of Courtney Ellerton. And listening, once more 
I trusted, once more I was happy. Happy in the 
thought that I should be a wife — ^the wife of Mm 
I loved, of Marcus ; wMle you — ^who I believed still 
loved Marcus — ^you whom I hated, would be unwed^ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


271 


ded and unhappy, and without the power to liarm 
us whom you hated. 

And then Marcus told me of his long ago con- 
ceived intention — ^which had grown into a plan — 
to shut you up for life in an insane asylum. It was 
a difficult thing, without imperiling our safety, to 
do. It was especially difS-cult to get possession 
of you, as you had never been left alone. But you 
know by what fatality it was at last accomplished. 
Marcus, for his own safety, did not at first appear 
upon the scene. It was I, Ellinore, disguised as a 
Sister, and Doctor Simmonds — ^Iiim whom you have 
named the ^fiorid faced, the dead white handed 
man,’ and who is the physician in charge of this 
Asylum — who followed you, and without any of 
the trouble that was anticipated accomplished your 
abduction. You were taken at once to a house kept 
by a sister of Doctor Simmonds, where his patients 
are sometimes taken previous to their confinement 
in this Asylum. As you were driven away, (it is 
only through what you have written, that I know, 
the truth, and what really occurred during your 
detention in that house,) Marcus appeared, and 
made known to me the plan, which, if successful, 
was to prevent suspicion from falling upon him, 
as your known enemy, and to insure the safety 
of us both. 


272 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Th^ pliOn, as lie persuaded me to belieye it to be,’ 
was this : he, Marcus, would see you, and feigning 
repentance, and a great love for you, would confess 
that he, becoming desperate, had himself caused 
your abduction ; and that it was only since he had 
tried to love another, and since he had learned that 
you were about to marry another, that he had 
learned to know his own heart, and how much, how 
madly he loved you ; and that if you would go with 
him, of your own will, for very love of him, leav- 
ing a letter of frank explanation for Courtney and 
Mrs. Edmonds, he would gladly do, then, that same 
evening, what you had once entreated him to dO“ 
he would marry you. 

As I have said, I had no thought that you loved 
Courtney Ellerton j but that you had consented to 
be his wife only from ambitious motives — ^as you 
had consented to my ruin ; and I still believed, and 
Marcus helped me to believe, that you loved him — 
Marcus. But when he had made known to me the 
boldness of the plan, I was not so confident of its 
success as he was ; for I could not know the fine- 
ness of that plan — not knowing yet of your malady. 
But he, knowing the dreadful help you, yourself, 
unconsciously would bring to bring your ruin, he 
planned too well for failure; and you, as you have 
divined, went sleep walking back to your room with 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


273 


Marcus ; where, at his dictation, you wrote a letter 
to Mrs. Edmonds and Courtney. Then, taking your 
trunk, with each thing of yours, as he directed, 
you went with him to the boat that was to convey 
you, during the night, to this Asylum. 

Before the boat had left New York, I was already, 
with your luggage, on the way to precede your 
arrival, and to make ready here for you. And it 
was, again as you supposed, a woman’s hands, my 
own, that arranged your room. But it was not 
my footsteps that you heard, thinking it was Mrs. 
Edmonds’ ; it was the step of Dr. Simmonds — the 
man who brought you here. For I — as soon 
as I had hung your gowns in the wardrobe, sorted 
your linen, and placed each thing where you 
saw it in your room — I went back again by rail- 
way, and reached New York before you had reached 
the Asylum. The letter which you found in your 
room, I had not seen; and it was only in reading 
your manuscript, that I knew its true contents, 
and that a copy of the one you had written Court- 
ney — a copy you yourself had written^ — ^Ead been 
left for you. 

On my return, Marcus informed me that he had 
drugged you in wine, that you had taken with him 
in your room, before leaving the hotel — when you 
gayly drank to the health of Courtney; and that 


274 


TilE DEVIL AND I. 


before you had reached the boat, you were uncon-^ 
scious ; and tliat he then left you in the care of Doc- 
tor Simmonds, who brought you here. Marcus took 
the steamer at an early lioui* for Europe j while I 
at once secured a room in the hotel where you had 
been, on the same floor, and opposite to the rooms you 
had occupied with Mrs. Edmonds. Late in tlie 
afternoon of the same day, Mrs. Edmonds and Court- 
ney returned. They entered the small parlor that was 
a part of your suite of rooms, and although the door 
was closed, I could hear almost every word and 
sound that was uttered ; and it must have been after 
the reading of your letter, that I heard a groan 
and an exclamation of anguish from Courtney, and 
an expression of amazement from Mrs. Edmonds^ 
followed by an indignant protestation against her 
belief in your guilt. 

^ I never will believe it, never ! Ellinore has been 
again tlie victim of some diabolical plot on the part 
of Marcus Pancho ! What a fatal mistake it was — 
our leaving her alone ! Courtney Ellerton, I have 
always believed you a brave man, a manly man j and 
now, at the first signs of trouble, you look lik e this 
— ^half dead with hopelessness and terror ! Come, 
let us not lose a minute ! ’ 

There was no answer, save another moan; but from 
the opening door came M^s. Edmonds with a stern 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


275 


countenancej and resolute, followed by Courtney, 
whose face was of a frightful pallor. 

There was excitement everywhere. Every one 
was questioned. All the guests of the hotel crowded 
about, some from sympathy, others from curiosity. 
The servant, that had the care of your rooms, said 
she had seen you go out early in the day, and that 
when you returned, late in the afternoon, a very 
handsome man accompanied you — ^wliose appear- 
ance she described. 

‘Ah! that is he, that is Oscar Lyndhurst!^ cried 
Courtney, reeling as if he had been struck by a 
sudden blow ; and the face of Mrs. Edmonds 
blanched to a sudden whiteness, but she said, — 

‘Alas! I have no picture of our poor Oscar, and 
Georgine had none, to prove to you that he whom 
you describe is not Oscar, but another whom I have 
not seen, but who I know is Marcus Pancho — dis-; 
guised, perhaps, as Oscar.^ 

But when the servant said she had seen you drink 
with the handsome stranger, to the health of some 
one you and he, laughingly, had named ‘ Courtney,’ 
then, the man who loves you staggered to a chair, 
and bowed his head. We thought he had fainted; 
but, at the sound of Mrs. Edmonds’ voice, in a dazed 
way he looked at her. 

‘This is outrageous! ’ she cried, in a hard, fierce 


276 


THE DEVIL AND I 


tone. ‘ This, more than anything that we have 
heard, should convince you, Courtney, that it is not 
our EUinore who could lose — unless she lose her 
senses — ^in coarse jests and coarse actions, the rare 
fineness of her nature ! No, no, Courtney ! what*' 
ever Ellinore has done to look like wrong of her own 
doing, she did it as she has often done strange things 
‘without her knowing — she did it in her sleep. The 
very fact that the letter says — as a, hint to make us 
do so — ^that we will try to find first Oscar Lynd- 
hurst, proves that it is Marcus Pancho we must 
find, and not Oscar.’ And with ah imperious look 
and gesture she dismissed the witnesses, who could 
take no meaning from her words, but who, pitying 
her, believed that grief had made her. mind dis- 
traught. 

Then, together, these two who love you, w^ent next 
— as I thought they would do — ^to the office of the 
lawyer through whom they had sent their letters 
to Oscar Lyndhurst. And as they went, I followed. 
I knew they would hear the lawyer say that he 
knew no more than they, the whereabouts of Oscar ; 
for Marcus had told him what to say. When they 
had seen the lawyer, they went to search the list 
of passengers who had sailed for Europe ; and look- 
ing, found the names of ^ Marcus Pancho and wife.’ 

f Alas ! W,e are too late ! They are already mar- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


277 


ried!’ cried Courtney, forgetting where he was,’ 
while great drops of anguish oozed from his pallid 
face. 

Mrs. Edmonds looked at him reproachfully ; hut 
from the sudden brightening of her face when she 
had read the name of Marcus Pancho, I knew that 
she was happier now, that Courtney must believe 
with her, that it was Marcus, and not Oscar, whom 
they must seek. 

^ Poor Courtney ! ’ she said. ^ You are not your- 
self — so brave, so reasonable; or you would not 
lose so soon your faith in Ellinore, or lose so soon 
your courage ! Jiisteuy > Courtney, and believe 
through my believing — since you know no longer of 
yourself how to believe — that Ellinore, wherever 
she may be, if she be yet alive, is the same 
Ellinore — ^the soul of frankness and of purity ; that 
she is true in her loving and her loyalty to you; 
that no mattei* what has happened, no matter what 
we yet may see, and yet may hear; until we see 
with our own eyes that she is happy with another, 
until we hear from her own lips that what she has 
written is true ; until then — shall believe that she 
is our Ellinore, and not another’s ! ’ 

Ellinore, hard and cold as my heart had become, 
I felt a pity for the man who loved you so — you, 
so wicked, as I then believed, and so unworthy of 


278 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


his love — and admiration for the woman who could 
have such faith in the goodness of another woman, 
who could he so loyal to another woman, as Mrs. 
Edmonds had faith in you, as she was loyal to you. 

The fact that Marcus had appeared openly with 
you, and the apparent boldness of your conduct 
with him, and of your preparations to go with him, 
had completely misled both Mrs. Edmonds and 
Courtney in regard to the manner of your disappear- 
ance. And instead of setting the detectives at work 
here, at once, which would have led to a knowledge 
of the facts, and to an investigation which would 
have precipitated your confinement in this under- 
ground prison, it was as Marcus had foreseen and 
plrovided for — ^they prepared at once to follow Mar- 
cus in the first steamer that followed his departure. 
I waited till they had sailed; and then, knowing 
there would be no danger for the present, I returned 
to this Asylum, where arrangements had been made 
for me to remain until advised by Marcus what to 
do. He had given Doctor Simmonds the strictest 
orders to provide everything needful for your com- 
fort, and to keep from you all knowledge of the 
place wherein you are confined, until he should 
inform us that the search for you had been aban- 
doned ; as should the facts of your abduction and 
the place of your concealment be discovered, we 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


279 


should, in case we had inflicted any cruel treatinj^nt 
upon you, suffer an additional penalty from the 
law. This is what I thought, then, was the only 
reason that Marcus desired you to be kindly 
treated ; but I know, now, that while he hated you, 
he had also a mad desire to posess you wholly ; and 
that it was this desire, above every otlier, that made 
him wish to preserve you in mind and in body. Had 
I known the truth then, had I even suspected it, 
believing still in your love for him, I do not know 
what, in my desperate hate of you, I might have 
done. You were in my power ; for, as you sup- 
posed, my room was next to yours. The door — that 
you saw once, only — ^by which I entered your room, 
opens by the noiseless sliding of a panel ; and often 
I came at night to look upon you in your sleep, 
and glided back without your knowing. Marcus 
had taught me how to hate you, and enough, that 
he could trust you to my keeping, knowing I would 
not pity. 

And yet, EUinore, it was not only because of the 
fear that by some means you would know me — even 
through the mystery of my disguise — ^that you did 
not oftener see me ; it was also a dread, lest in my 
heart — ^that still had something of a woman’s — 
some pity might spring up for you, and that I 
might do something that would make you less 


280 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


unhappy than you were. The day you wandered 
from your room, and saw the hapless woman put 
within the iron cage, (she died, Ellinore, the woman 
you saw, without the terror that had caused her 
death; because, happily, she no longer kept her 
reason.) that day, I had been out all the afternoon. 
You were habitually so quiet, that I had become 
less watchful of you, and of those who had the care 
of you; and I was as much surprised as alarmed, 
when upon my return I found you in the hands of 
the two attendants, who of course believed you 
insane — as neither Doctor Simmonds nor myself 
could, without danger to ourselves, admit that you 
were sane ; indeed, we had not admitted it to each 
other; and it was only with the promise to pay 
them an amount sufiiciently large to recompense 
them for the sacrifice of the delight most dear 
to them — ^the delight they find in their cruel manage- 
ment of a refractory patient — ^that I succeeded in 
persuading them to abandon, in your case, the usual 
Treatment.’ After that, I knew your safety could 
only be assured, as it had been in the past, by your 
silence and pretended indifference to all about you. 
This, you remember, I tried, in the strongest manner, 
to impress upon you ; and in observing, unperceived 
by you, youi* movements, I was convinced that you 
were wise enough to see the wisdom of my counsel. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


' 281 ' 


and to insure your safety by following it. And 
it was fortunate for you that you were thus wise ; 
for a short time after that you were deprived even 
of my protection ; as it was then that I received a 
message from Marcus to come at once to London. 

For while all this was happening to you, Mrs. 
Edmonds and Courtney were in pursuit of Marcus — 
who, of course, as soon as he ha'd reached London, 
was not to be found either by the name of Marcus 
Pancho, or of Oscar Lyndhurst, but by another 
name — ^if found at all ; and their search might have 
been an endless one, had Courtney shared the per- 
fect faith of Mrs. Edmonds — ^who thought it an out- 
rage even to seek for Oscar Lyndhurst with the 
thougjht that he might be culpable. But Courtney 
doubted; and .until he had found Oscar, and had 
convinced himself that he was not the destroyer of 
his happiness — ^as you in your letter had declared 
him to be — ^he determined to seek, unknown to Mf s. 
Edmonds, as persistently and as thoroughly for 
Oscar, as she was seeking for Marcus. This double 
pursuit by Mrs. Edmonds and Courtney, each, with- 
out knowing it, for the same man, became embarass- 
ing even for the adroit Marcus, and finally dangerous 
for him. It was then that he sent a message f or me, 
and at the same time advised his lawyer in New 
York to send a telegram to Mrs. Edmonds, to the 


282 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


effect that Oscar Lyndhurst was soon to arrive in 
London, and that he, the lawyer, had informed 
Oscar, also by cable, of their presence and address 
in London. This telegram was received by Mrs. 
Edmonds — as it was intended to be received — soon 
after my arrival in London. 

As soon as Marcus had made known to me the sit- 
uation, and the contemplated master stroke that was 
to put an end at the same time to the double pursuit 
of himself, and to the necessity of his concealment ; 
and after he had explained to me the part that I was 
expected to play ; he went at once, with the mes- 
sage he had just received from his lawyer, to the 
address of Mrs. Edmonds, and at an hour when he 
was sure to find both her and Courtney at home. 
Announcing himself thus suddenly to them, with all 
the freedom of one who believes himself a beloved 
and privileged friend, and in the frankest, most 
cordial manner ; while he was profuse in his expres- 
sions of delight at seeing them, and of his surprise 
to learn, on his return from a long stay in Russia, 
that they were in London; all this, that was the 
perfection of acting, rejoiced the heart ©f Mrs. 
Edmonds. This sudden return of him she knew as 
Oscar Lyndhurstj his first, filank, spontaneous 
utterances, his entire manner, must prove at once 
to Courtney the injustice of his suspicions. But 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


283 


imagine her still greater delight, when she saw with 
what apparent amazement and horror the pseudo 
Oscajp read the letter that you had written to them, 
without once appearing to suspect that either Mrs. 
Edmonds or Courtney had ever, even for a moment^ 
believed in the truth of the letter in regard to 
himself ; imagine all this—which Marcus gayly 
rehearsed to me on his retuim — and you wiU not be 
surprised to learn that Courtney, in dread lest 
‘ Oscar ’ should suspect that he had suspected him,’ 
took as effectual means to stop all search for him, 
as he had taken to find him. 

And now, EUinore, comes the supreme scene in 
this long and startling drama ; the scene in which 
the talent of this marvelous actor reached the per- 
fection of excellence : when with a sublime gener- 
osity, with an enthusiasm that put theirs to shame, 
he offered to help them in their search for Marcus 
Pancho; to help them, think of it, EUinore, — ^to 
search for himself ; and he set to work with a zeal 
that was, apparently, the result of a determination 
to succeed. 

The evening of the day of your abduction, EUinore, 
when I preceded your coming to this Asylum, in 
order to arrange your room, Marcus had given me 
special orders to take from your wardrobe a walk-, 
ing-suit, and a di*ess for the Opera, with the accom-;’ 


284 ; 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


panying paraphernalia — all of which had been made 
expressly for you — ^and to keep them in my posses- 
sion until he should demand them. When I went 
to London, I had, by his orders, taken these with 
me. Evidently, the entire plan — of which in the 
execution he succeeded to a marvelous degiree — ^had 
been conceived before your abduction, and every 
possible contingency provided for ; for the first step 
he took in his pretended search for Marcus Pancho, 
was to provide himself, from Mrs. Edmonds, with 
a list of the gowns you would be likely to wear. 

And then, Ellinore, I came upon the scene — as 
you. We are of the same height, you and I, and of 
the same proportion. My hair, too, is like your’s — 
the same hue of blackness. Then a man was found 
who, well paid, called himself Marcus Pancho. 
And on a certain day, when, by appointment, Mar- 
cus — ^as ; 'Oscar^ Lyndhurst — accorrtpanied 
Edmonds to a gallery of bric-a-brac, we — ^the false 
Marcus and I — shaving been advised when to appear, 
came out from the entrance of the gallery, and met 
Mrs. Edmonds and the pretended Oscar. I wore 
your walking dress, with the gloves, and bonnet, 
and wrap — all of which Mrs. Edmonds recognized, 
for she had ordered them for you; and with the 
veil close drawn about my face, she believed me to 
be you ; while I, to confirm the truth of what she 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


'285 


thought, started back, drawing my veil yet closer. 
And then she called me by your name ; but when 
with outstretched hands she came towards me, I, 
with feigned trepidation drew back, then stepped 
aside, passed by her, and hurrying out, took refuge 
in the carriage that waited for us, and that bore us 
quickly from her sight. 

As far as we could see, the woman was gazing 
still at our fleeing carriage. And yet, Ellinore, even 
after this, all faith in your goodness was not dead 
in her. ‘ Not till I see her, and hear from her own 
lips that she loves this Marcus Pancho, and that 
she is happy with him, will I believe that she, with 
her own will, has wronged thus me and Courtney ! ’ 
This she said, though pallid and in tears, to the 
false Oscar j while she bade him find you — ^you and 
Marcus. This, too, the real Marcus repeated to me, 
with an immense delight at the success of his 
scheme. As he was entrusted now with the man- 
agement of the means of discovery, he proposed to 
amuse himself, so long as it should please him to do 
so, with a variety of comedies, with the idea of 
eventually putting an end to the affair, by causing 
the sudden disappearance of the false Marcus and 
Ellinore. In the meantime, he, of course, would not 
permit Mrs. Edmonds the opportunity of a personal 
interview — ^which she had determined to have — 


286 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


with the supposed Ellinore. But for once this for- 
tunate actor was forced to play a part he had not 
expected to play. 

Some days after this — my first personation of 
you — ^the so-called Oscar reported to Mrs. Edmunds, 
that with the help of a detective he had succeeded 
in tracing Marcus Pancho, and that he was living*, 
under another name, with a woman who was sup- 
posed to be his wife ; and that he had succeeded, by 
bribing the maid — who had informed him, at the 
same time, that she could admit no one that was 
not proviued with a card of appointment — that her 
master and mistress were going to the Opera that 
evening ; and that she also gave him the number of 
their box, and that he forthwith had procured seats 
for Mrs. Edmonds and himself for the same even- 
ing, in a box on the opposite side of the house, hop- 
ing by that means — ^as he represented to Mrs, 
Edmonds — ^that she might see you, if it were indeed 
you, face to face. Courtney, when he had been 
informed by Mrs. Edmonds of her unexpected sight 
of you, was at first prostrated by the effect of a 
discovery that he considered the final proof of your 
guilt, and afterwards became seriously ill ; so that 
Mrs Edmonds went to the Opera alone with bim 
she knew as Oscar Lyndliurst. 

When we entered the Opera, Mrs. Edmonds and 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


287 


Marcus were already there. I kept the hood of my 
cloak closely drawn about my averted face, as I 
passed into the box. At the first sight of me — ^Mar- 
cus afterwards informed me — Mrs. Edmonds rec- 
ognized the gown, and cloak, and fan — the entire 
dress, as yours; and, with a suppressed exclama- 
tion, her face became deadly pale. Once in the box, 
as it w^as agreed upon, the man with me, who per- 
sonated Marcus, seated himself in such a manner, 
that half hidden as I already was by the drapery of 
the box, it was impossible for Mrs. Edmonds to get 
a recognizable view of my face. But not once did 
her eyes wander from the place where I sat ; and I 
began to feel uncomfortable under the fixedness of 
her gaze, and to wish myself safely out of her sight ; 
and before the last notes of the closing opera had 
died away, I arose, and again effectually concealing 
my face, I, passed out with my companion. But sud- 
den and rapid as had been my movements, Mrs. 
Edmonds had left as suddenly, and more rapidly, 
her box, and had gone out by the exit nearest her, at 
the !same time that we passed out by the one near- 
est us ; and as I reached the outer entrance leading 
into the street, in the full light of the brilliantly 
burning lamps, I felt an arm about me, and at the 
same moment that your name was pronounced, the 
hood of my cloak was pulled from my face, and with 


288 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


one glance at me, and with a low cry, the woman 
who had from the first been so brave — fainted. 
Fainted, EUinore, from very joy that I was not you ; 
that she might still believe in you, still be faithful 
to you. Marcus, white with anger, came promptly 
to the aid of Mrs. Edmonds ; while I, with my aston- 
ished companion, passed out and was driven rapidly 
away. 

Of course this ended the ‘ amusement ^ in an unex- 
pected way for Marcus ; and, as Oscar Lyndhurstj 
he decided with Mrs. Edmonds and Courtney — ^the 
latter having recovered, after the last fortunate dis- 
covery by Mrs. Edmonds, from his illness — ^that you 
had been the victim of some deep laid plot; and 
after some delay in their efforts to find me, and to 
get possession of the gowns that Mrs. Edmonds was 
firm in her belief were yours, and of the informa- 
tion that it was to be supposed I possessed concern- 
ing you, they decided to return to New York, and, 
with the aid of detectives, to thoroughly investi- 
gate the matter from the first hour of your disap- 
pearance. The delay — that Marcus prolonged in 
every possible way — ^that was the result of their 
search for me, enabled me to precede their coming 
to America, and to execute, without interruption, 
the plan of Marcus as he had instructed me to do. 
This plan was to have an underground room pre- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


!289 


pared for you, directly under the room you then 
occupied, and with no other entrance to it except 
through a trap door. This underground room — ^to 
which you, and all that belonged to you, could be 
removed at a short notice — was to be occupied only 
in the event of Mys. Edmonds’ and Courtney’s di^ 
CO very of the fact of your abduction, and their com- 
ing to this Asylum in search of you. 

The necessity to conceal you here, came sooner 
than we had anticipated; for Courtney, believing 
now as implicitly as Mrs. Edmonds that you had 
been foully dealt with, employed every means, as 
well as his own time and energy, to bring to light 
the mystery of your disapperance, and the place of 
your concealment. The fact of the abduction as it 
had occurred on the day of your disappearance, was 
discovered; and one of the individuals who had 
interfered at the moment of your seizure, having 
been found, his description of you — all that he could 
see of you, for you were closely veiled — led Mrs. 
Edmonds and Courtney to suspect it was you ; and 
the fact that the man had been shown a certificate 
of insanity, led them still further to believe that you 
had been confined in an insane asylum ; but as they 
learned nothing more than the mere fact of the 
abduction, and could discover no trace of you — or 
of her they supposed to be you— they decided to 


290 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


make a thorough search through all the asylums 
in the land. 

Ellinore, you were not wrong in thinking that I 
pitied you the evening you were brought here to 
[this you call your ‘tomb-like^ prison. After my 
return from abroad, I took again my old habit of 
gliding through the paneled door to your room, to 
watch you as you slept, unconscious of my presence. 
You were so pale, so changed, so suffering. You 
were so wholly in the power ,of those who hated 
you, that I set myself to thinking of your love for 
Marcus, and of his hate of you. I had then no room 
in my heart for envy ; for Marcus had never been, 
even in the first days of our loving, so tender and 
so kind, so much a lover to me, as he had been 
tlirough all the weeks that I had been with him in 
London. ‘ She loves him, too,^ I thought, ‘ even as 
I love him ; and she must know, as I now know, how 
bad at heart he is. Perhaps it was his wicked 
doing that made her bad; and if she has made me 
suffer, for the man I love, she owes to him also her 
suffering, with no recompense from him for whom 
she suffers, but suff'ering ; while, if he can love at 
all, he must love me ; and if one can be made happy 
by his loving, I am happy now, while she is 
wretched.^ So I thought, and pitied you — ^for one 
can more easily pity when one is happy, knowing 
that the one one hates is not. 


THE DEVIL AND 1. 


291 


It was no fancy, Elliuore, that caused you such 
an agony of pain in thinking that you heard the 
footsteps and the voices of those who loved you, 
overhead. Three days after you were brought here, 
your friend, and your lover came, armed with 
authority to search each habitable room in this asy- 
lum. We had made of your room, a sitting-room — 
sliding back the paneled door, and draping the 
entrance, that it might seem a part of mine ; while 
I, the occupant, was to appear the victim of a harm- 
less madness.^ Ah, Ellinore, how strange we humans 
can not see the truth that often is so near for us 
to see ! Mrs. Edmonds glanced compassionately 
at me; but from my disguise of gray hair and col- 
ored glasses, looked nothing to reveal to her that 
she had followed me for weeks, believing I was 
you; and that, at last, the sight of my poor face 
unveiled and undisguised, had brought her back 
to hopefulness and to her faith in you. She walked 
about the room, commended its tastefulness and com- 
fort, and then passed out. But Courtney lingered 
for a moment, with a troubled look upon his face, 
going from place to place, and standing once before 
the grated window where you had so often stood, 
as if, by some strange instinct of his loving, he felt 
the impress of where you had been, as you, by that 
same instinct, felt that he was near. 


29 ^ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


After this visit, of those who were in search of 
you, to this Asylum, to the room where you had 
been, we felt that our safety for the present was 
secured; but so long as they were searching for 
you in other Asylums, we concluded that it would 
be wise to keep you in the effectual concealment of 
this unknown and unsuspected prison. It was at 
this time that Doctor Simmonds, having been called 
away from his duties, requested me to visit, during 
his absence, a patient who was seriously ill, and who 
he said was one of the ^ harmless^ cases. It was 
during one of these visits to this patient, that I saw 
the locket, which was a rare one, and precisely like 
one I had seen about your neck ; and I was curious 
to know something about it, or at least what the 
poor, witless being w^ho wore it, would say of it. 
When I asked him to tell me about the locket, and 
something about himself, he looked at me amazed, 
that any one should speak to him, and speak as 
though caring to hear what he might say. And, 
EUinore, although it was precisely on the subject 
of himself — ^his past, his history — ^that Doctor Sim- 
Imonds assured me he was most insane ; yet, before 
he had half finished his recital, I divined the truth — 
that he was your father, and that he was not mad. 

You know what I had already learned from Marcus 
of his own history, and of the woman you had long 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


293 


known as your mother, and of you. Marcus had also 
told me that your father^s name was Keginald Tre- 
valyn; he did not say, and I am sure he did not 
know, that it was Sir Reginald ; and I had always 
fancied him, your father, a poor adventurer, and 
you the child of a pauper — seeing you had found no 
other guardian for your orphanage than the 
wretched woman you called your mother. Marcus 
believed your father dead — so you believed. But 
he was not dead ; and the woman who had told you 
both this falsehood, knew that he was living, and 
not dead. For the mother of Marcus was, I knew — 
even while your father told his story — ^the woman 
who, hating him whom she once had loved, had first 
wrought the ruin of all he loved, and then — in the 
sickness of his sorrow, and half dead — had brought 
him here ; and still hating you for the father’s sake, 
had taught Marcus to hate you, and dying, had made 
him promise, without his knowing why — so he had 
told me — ^to put you here. But Marcus had been 
deceived too ,* for the tale that your father told to 
me, was not the same that Marcus had told to me. 
Why had his mother kept from him the truth ? 
What was the mystery? Or what if Marcus had 
not told me the truth even as he knew it ? What 
if from the first I had been by him misled ? What 
if in knowing the story of Marcus’ liffe, and yours. 


294 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


as you could tell it, I should know otherwise than 
I had known it — and know you perhaps less cul- 
pable, and him more wicked ? These, Ellinore, and 
other questions that Heaven sent in answer to youTj 
praying, came to me to turn my mind toward the 
truth, that knowing it, I might help you. And so I 
came to place the pencils and the paper in your room, 
hoping that in your f ear of madness you would write 
for a distraction, and perhaps say something that 
would help me to know if I was rightly knowing, 
or, if not, help me to know the truth. 

In the meantime, I was curious to know what 
Doctor Simmonds knew of your father’s history, 
and of yours. From him, by (luestioning, I knew 
I should learn nothing ; and perhaps, by being curi- 
ous, would suggest to him a caution that would keep 
me from all ways of knowing. For did he know; 
your father was not insane, and that you were not, 
for his own safety he would say you both were 
'mad. So I reasoned, and after deliberating for some 
time, I determined to gratify my curiosity another 
way. I knew that Doctor Simmonds kept all his 
important papers and his private correspondence in 
a cabinet that was in a small room back of the 
library. He had frequently employed me to answer 
letters at his dictation, and sometimes had left his 
lectures for me to copy while he was absent from the 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


295 


Asylum. I succeeded in having a false key made 
that would open the cabinet ; and taking advantage 
of the opportunity that his absence afforded me, I 
opened the cabinet, and found therein all the proofs 
that were necessary to show that Sir Eeginald Tre- 
valyn had been confined here by the order of the 
woman who was Marcus Pancho’s mother, and with 
the consent of a distant kinsman of your father — 
who Tvas then occupying the estate and the title of 
your father; and that all who had known your 
father — except these two and Doctor Simmonds — 
believed him dead ; and that a handsome income had 
been paid regularly to Doctor Simmonds to insure 
his discretion, and to secure the comfortable sup- 
13ort of his distinguished patient. These letters — 
in which the writer had always been careful to 
speak of your father as insane — later, when the time 
came for me to use them, and after consulting with 
your father, I sent, with a letter from your father, 
to Chauncy Arnold — one of England’s ablest law- 
yers, and who had been your father’s dearest friend 
— ^with the request to keep their contents, as well as 
his own investigations of the affair, a secret from 
every one until we should advise him when to make 
them known. 

Weeks passed, and months, in which I saw no 
^ore your father ; but I kept the story he had told 


296 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


to me, and the knowledge I had learned of himj a 
secret ; and troubled, I knew not why, and wonder- 
ing, I waited. Then came the astounding revela- 
tion, for which, not knowing, I had w’^aited. The 
revelation that enabled me to see lilarcus Pancho 
as he is; that showed to me, unbrightened, the 
blackness of his soul ; that effaced, in one moment, 
the blind idolatry of years for him, and left, in its 
stead, a deadly hatred. Marcus had come here for 
the night ; and we — Doctor Simmonds, Marcus and 
I — ^had talked until a late hour, when, at last bid- 
ding them good-night, I went to my room. I had 
been there a short time, when it occurred to me 
that I had forgotten to say something to Marcus 
that was necessary to say, and thinlving that I 
might forget it, as he was going away at an early 
hour the next morning, I left my room with the 
intention of seeing him. I found the door of the 
library almost closed; and seeing no light in it, 
and only a feeble one in the room beyond, I hesitated, 
and was about to retrace my steps, when I heard 
the sound of Marcus^ voice in words that made me 
start and, trembling, turn back. The voice came 
from the small room that is back of the library ; 
and pushing the door softly open, I glided into the 
library, and secreting myself behind the thick drap- 
ery of a window, I heard, without being seen, every 
word. 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


297 


‘I repeat it, Doctor Siiomonds, there is only one 
way to end this deucedly disagreeable situation — 
that is every day becoming more embarrassing, and 
more difficult to maintain — ^in a manner that will, 
be satisfactory to me, and that will, at the same 
time, rid me of the hounds that are, without their, 
Snowing it, incessantly in pursuit of me 5 the way 
that I intended it from the first to end; that is — 
to marry Ellinore, and have the right to claim* 
her.’ 

^ Certainly, certainly, Pancho ! I agree with you, 
that the only way to possess the girl in safety, is 
to marry her. But how are you going to induce a 
woman who hates you, to marry you ? ’ 

‘ Of course, my dear Doctor, I know that Ellinore 
will never consent, of her own will, to marry me| 
but I know how to make her consent against her 
will, or to make her marry me without consenting 
to do it. I shall tell her that she must submit to 
a confinement for life in the underground room 
where she now is, or accept her freedom by becom- 
ing my wife. 1 believe she will consent, in the 
secret hope of escaping from me — once she is my 
wife and out of prison ; but if she will not consent, 
I shall make use of her malady — ^that has never 
yet disappointed me — ^to bring about the desired 
end.’ 

‘ And, Pancho, suppose you should succeed, as you 


298 


THE DEVIL AND 1 . 


hope, nay, believe you will succeed, have you re- 
flected upon the unpleasant results to me, as well as 
to yourself should the facts of the case be made 
known, as they certainly will be — even should you 
be able to keep them concealed — ^by the other 
woman, who is madly in love with you, and who,’ 
when you have undeceived her, and abandoned 
her — as you will be obliged to do — ^wiU spare no 
means that will insure her as satisfactory revenge/ 
‘Assure yourself. Doctor, that I have prepared 
for every emergency, and for every event that is 
possible to occur. As to my own part in the mat- 
ter, I shall prevent all disagreeable happenings for 
yourself, and for me, by keeping Elliiiore — ^after 
our marriage — still concealed for weeks, and if 
necessary for months, in her present unsuspected 
prison ; only, instead of one prisoner, you wiU have 
two; for, as her husband, I shall share her prison 
with her, until we can in safety leave it. Then, 
once out of it, and out of America, I shall take my 
wife — and, trust me, with no chance of escape — 
to some corner of the globe where I may securely 
enjoy the sweets of married life. As for the ‘other 
woman’ and of course you mean Mabel Livingston 
— she is a weak, half crazy fool, and I have had too 
much of her ; too much of her even as the tool she 
has been for me — a tool for which I have paid too 
dear, in having to feign love where I hate. And 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


29 {>^ 

yet, a little longer I must endure this cursed bond- 
age; a little longer I shall have need of Mabel,' 
even to the end — until she, with her own hands, 
shall put within my arms, my Ellinore. And then, 
even in that moment of my happiness, she, poor 
dupe, will find herself, not knowing why, nor that 
it is my doing, shut up, for life, within the imson 
that once was Ellinore’s — or in one less pleasant,' 
that we shall have made ready for her. You are 
convinced now. Doctor Simmonds, that we shall 
have nothing to fear from the revenge of Mabel 
Livingston ? ’ 

‘ You are very clever, Pancho, — devilish clever ! 
But how are you going to bring it all about — this 
villainy that is yet only in your mind ? ^ 

^ I shall bring it about more easily than you imag- 
ine ; but, of course, I must have your ai(h During 
my next visit, which will be in eight or ten days, 

I shall inform Mabel that I have another plot in 
readiness for the punishment of the woman she 
hates — and believes that I hate. She will make 
a fete of the day on which I shall make the an- 
nouncement to her. Then, when the time comes 
for the consummating of my plans — which will 
come when we, Mrs, Edmonds, Courtney Ellerton 
and I, have made a raid upon every insane asylumi 
in the land, in search of EUinore — I shall come here,’ 
and tell Mabel that everything is ready, and ask 


300: THE DEVIL AND I. ' 

her to bring up, on a certain day, the fair Ellinore 
to her old room— that was her first prison. Mabel 
wiU obey, as she has always done, without a ques- 
tioning word. In the meantime I shall be in the 
library with you® and when Mabel comes to say 
that Ellinore awaits me, I shall propose to drink 
— from the already filled and waiting glasses — ^to 
the success of my plot. You, of course, will have 
drugged the wine in Mabel’s glass, with the pow- 
erful narcotic that you alone know how to prepare 
— the narcotic that was so effectual in its aid to bring 
Ellinore here-— and as soon as the drug has pro- 
duced its effect, I will leave you to do the rest with 
Mabel — that is, to rid me effectually of her — ^while 
I shall delight Ellinore by my unexpected appear- 
ance before her. Once in her presence, I shall 
make the proposition at once ; and no matter what 
her decision may be, then and there, with her con- 
sent or without it, the marriage ceremony — for 
which I shall have made all the arrangements — 
will be performed. After the marriage we shall 
remain here for a time in concealment, or go at 
once, if we may safely go, abroad.’ 

What they said after that, was simply comments 
upon what I have already told you, and then they 
talked of other things. While I, mad with a hor- 
rible pain, and burning with the fever of a new, 
fierce hate, stole out of the libraiy, and reached, 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


301 


somehow, my room. It was then that I thought 
of your manuscript — for I knew that you had writ- 
ten day after day, for months — and late as it was, 
1 came here while you slept, and taking the mauu- 
script, I read it, that same night, from the begin- 
ning to the end. And, EUinore, its perusal, with 
the horrible impression of what I had overheard 
in the library, turned my heart to stone. Learn- 
ing then, for the first time, how cruelly I had 
wronged you, in fatally wronging myself, I have 
had since then but one desire— a consuming, haunt- 
ing, maddening desire — to avenge your wrong and 
to avenge my own. And in reading what you had 
written, I believed that I had found already the 
means, an effectual means, to insure that revenge. 
For I suspected that which Marcus had never sus- 
pected; and which, if you had once suspected it, 
during the recital of the story told to you by JMar- 
cus’ mother, you had, at an assurance from her, 
dismissed forever the thought from you as impos- 
sible to be true ; but which, if your father had not 
omitted a part of the story in relating it to me, I 
should not only have suspected it long before, but 
I should have known — that it is impossible for 
Marcus j either by fair means or foul^ to marry you. 

As soon as I had finished the reading, I went with 
feverish haste to the room of your father — ^the door 


302 


' THE DEVIL AND I. 


of whicL I opened with the key of my own — ^aridi 
not only surprised him by the unexpected appear- 
ance of myself, but by asking him if be indeed bore 
upon his breast the marks of a cross and anchor. 
And when for my answer he showed them to me, 
I knew then that Marcus Pancho’s mother had told 
both him and you only a part of the truth; and 
that the child that \^as the result of your father’s 
unfortunate intunacy with her, had not died ; but 
that Marcus Pancho was that child — ^the son of 
your father, and not the son, as Marcus yet believed, 
of a nameless, unknown father. Ellinore, I knew 
then the truth — that Marcus Pancho is your half 
hr other ; and drunken with a dreadful joy, I gave 
the manuscript to your father, and bade him read, 
first the story of his own life — ^told to you by the 
mother of Marcus — ^as you have written it; and 
then I told him what I know : that IMarcus Panel o 
bears too, upon his breast, the marks of a blood-red 
cross, and the anchor like his own, in blue, that he 
himself had marked upon the boy, that he might 
know him as his son, and the boy know him as 
father. And then I placed a miniature of Marcus 
before your father’s eyes ; while he, astonished, 
touched a secret spring in the locket, and showed 
me a portrait of himself taken in his early youthJ 
And, Ellinore, as your face is the exact likeness of- 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


303 


your mother’s, so the face of Marcus is the perfect 
likeness of this picture of your father’s. This 
explains the vague resemblance, that was inexplica- 
ble to you, of your father to some one you had 
seen ; and this is why your father refused to show 
you this picture of himself in the locket ; you 
would have recognized the resemblance, and divined 
the truth — ^which he wished you to learn later, from 
me. But, for the rest, it is only the face of Marcus 
that is like your father ; Marcus himself possesses 
entirely the evil nature of his evil mother : while 
you — as Marcus’ mother often assured you, are 
like your father in disposition and temperament. 
The deadly hatred of the woman for you, doubt- 
less prompted her to keep your relationship 
to Marcus a secret, in the fear that, should he 
know the truth, he would — even bad as he is — ^revolt 
against a revenge so horrible as that which she 
contemplated for you — ^a life-long incarceration in 
this Asylum; while he, on his part, kept his passion 
for you a secret, rather than give her the pain of 
knowing that to his hate of you, for her sake, was 
allied an unconquerable passion for you, which 
would only turn to hate, as fierce as hers, once he 
should know he could not make you his. For, Elli- 
nore, the one impress that Heaven left, in trying to 
make of him a man — ^this devil — ^was his love for 


304 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


Ler, despite her vileness and her misery, whom he in 
secret called his mother. 

When your father had finished the reading of the 
entire mojnuscript, we consulted [together, and 
decided upon what we believed to be the quickest 
and most efficient means to accomplish aU that we 
wished to accomplish. It was then that he wrote a 
complete statement of all the facts regarding him- 
self, which I sent — ^with the letters I had taken from 
Doctor Simmonds’ cabinet — to Chauncey Arnold. 
And from that time, in anticipation of the dsij and 
hour for which Marcus was making ready — ^the day 
and hour that is to make you, as he believes, 
securely his, and that is at the same time to rid him 
effectually of me — for that day and hour I have 
worked day and night, to accomplish first a revenge 
worthy of his wronging of you, and afterwards a 
revenge worthy of his wronging of me. To perfect 
every arrangement that I desired to make ; to secure 
at the very moment of your triumph, the triumph of 
your father ; to bring certain persons here whom I 
wish to bring, without the knowledge of Marcus ; to 
secure the freedom of my own movements i in short, 
to insure the complete success of my contemplated 
revenge — it was absolutely necessary to have, not 
only the consent, but the aid of Doctor Simmonds. 
This aid I expected to compel him to give to your 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


305 


father, and to you, by showing him the letters I had 
received from Chauncy Arnold in regard to your 
father, and by informing him that I had heard the 
whole of the conversation between him and Mar- 
cus. But, to my amazement, he betrayed no sur- 
prise at the knowledge I possessed ; and when I had 
made known to him my plans, promised to give me 
all the assistance I should require of him. 

The truth was, he had already heard from the 
kinsman of Sir Eeginald Trevalyn, to the effect that 
he, the kinsman, had been advised by Chauncy Arn- 
old what course to take that would the soonest, and 
with tlie least scandal, restore all rights to Sir Reg- 
inald, and at the same time secure a certain pro- 
tection for himself. And Doctor Simmonds had 
also wisely concluded that the only way to preserve 
the immaculateness of his own reputation — which 
outside of the Asylum he always managed to pre- 
serve — ^was to admit of no conscious culpability on 
his part, nor of his knowledge of it on the part of 
any one else. ^ There was no proof he said, ^ that 
he knew your father was sane when he was confined 
here, or that he suspected that those who had put 
him here knew. Both he and, as far as he knew, the 
kinsman of Sir Reginald, had been simply the 
instruments of the woman’s revenge. She alone 
knew the truth — ^and she was dead. The man who 


30G 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


had proved himself to he Sir Eeginald Trevalyn,’ 
had been confined here while suffering from a ner- 
vous malady. This malady had been for years 
carefully treated, while he, Sir Eeginald, had been 
carefully attended, and provided with every needful 
comfort j now that he was ^ cured,’ it was natural 
that his friends should wish to take him from the 
Asylum.’ 

He took a similar view of your case : ‘ Marcus 
Pancho had sworn to him,’ he said, ^ that you were 
insane, and had given him a certificate to that 
effect. He had known only what Marcus had repre- 
sented to him as the facts of the case ; but now that 
I had proved to him the badness of Marcus, he was 
ready — as he had always been known to be — to 
assist in maintaining the cause of justice and of 
truth.’ 

This, Ellinore, was the substance of Doctor Sim- 
monds’ explanation to me in regard to your father 
and you, offered with the unembarrassed readiness 
of one who is always ready for any emergency. 
And I am convinced, that no matter what you and I 
may think, or know of Doctor Simmonds, he is 
clever enough to have protected himself from all 
blame, and from all proof, even from us, of his cul- 
pability ; and that we shall be wise to leave him to 
a punishment that is not of our bringing about ; for 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


30T 


he has been useful to us, he will yet be useful to us | 
we shall have need of him to the end— to the hour 
that wiU secure to you your happiness, and assure 
me my revenge. 

All is arranged now, Ellinore. Through Doctor 
Simmonds I have been advised of Marcus’ every 
movement, and of the day when he expects to con- 
summate his plans in regard to you — ^and to me. 

I have left nothing undone. For my own satis- 
faction, I had an interview with Doctor H ^ 

who confirms all that you have written in regard to 
the hypnotic phenomena of which you have been 
the unfortunate victim. 

I have seen Mrs. Edmonds and Courtney Ellerton. 
It was difficult to convince Mrs. Edmonds that the 
man she had known as Oscar Lyndhurst, was Mar- 
cus Pancho. The double identity had been so 
cleverly managed, and so long concealed, that the 
truth was astounding to her. But Courtney 
accepted it the more readily, that many things 
which he had noted from the beginning, and 
throughout the startling drama, that he could not 
satisfactorily explain to himself, now — ^looking back 
upon them through the light of truth — explained 
themselves. 

Chauncy Arnold is in New York, armed with offi- 
cial authority, should there be any opposition, to 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


m 

liberate your father,, and to restore him to his posi- 
tion and his estate in England. All your friends 
are waiting only for the message from me that will 
advise them when to come. That message is sent> 
EUinore. Marcus Pancho came last night. He was 
all tenderness, all love — ^believing that he has duped 
me to the last ; and from no word or look, or action 
of mine, in his presence, could he suspect that with 
all the madness of my once loving him, I am now 
hating him. It was last night that he told me he 
had a surprise in store for me, and that I should 
bring you up to your old room to-morrow morning ; 
when, after seeing you alone, he would inform me 
of all that he had done, and of all that he proposed 
yet to do | adding, that when I should know all, I 
would have more reason than ever to commend his 
clever management of you. I heard all he had to 
say, with a visible exultation at the thought of my 
own cherished and unsuspected revenge — an exul- 
tation that he mistook for "the signs of rejoicing, 
that I had always shown at each new promise of a 
misfortune to you. 

Marcus has been all the morning with Doctor Sim- 
monds, talking over the arrangements that he has 
made — in which he expects Doctor Simmonds to 
take part — ^for to-morrow, for the last scene in the 
last act of his drama — for which I also have made 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


309 


other arrangements, that it may end my way, and not 
his. 

W e shall have many surprises for this surprising 
actor, who has so often and so greatly surprised 
others. I will come for you to-morrow, EUinore, at 
the hour designated by Marcus. You will not wear 
the simple white gown, such as you now wear.* I 
have your bridal robe— a thing of beauty, that came 
from Paris for you, the day after your mysterious 
disappearance. Mrs. Edmonds has given it to me, 
for you, EUinore, and you will wear it — ^your wed- 
ding-gown — ^to-morrow. Only you will wear over 
it, to effectually conceal it, a long wrap of soft, light 
texture, for which, to apologize for the wearing, say 
you are chilly, and have need of it. 

When I shall have taken you to j^our old room, to- 
morrow, I shall l^ve you to drink the ^drugged 
wine — ’ so Marcus wdU believe — with him and Doctor 
Simmonds — ^who will feign, to the last, to be the 
friend of Marcus, that he may, in truth, befriend 
you. And in these minutes, while Marcus is drink- 
ing to the health of his own dark purpose, you will 
know, EUinore, that I shall be drinking to your near 
happiness, and — to my near revenge. Then pitying 
his impatience, I shall not delay to feign a deep 
unconsciousness — ^the quick work of the drug — and 
Marcus, leaving me to the care of Doctor Simmonds, 




^THE DEVIL AND I. ‘ 


will go to you. And when lie stands before you; 
Ellinore, exultant in the thought that you will soon 
be his ; you, knowing the truth, must not look the 
joy you feel, the triumph you are soon to have ; you 
imust seem the joyless, the despairing, the lifeless 
Ellinore — all that you through long months were, all 
that Marcus believes you are. He will at once make 
the proposition, which you already know, and which 
you wiU receive in sullen silence j a silence that he 
will take for your consent — a consent born of your 
despair. And then, at a signal given by him, your 
door will open, and the clergyman — chosen by Mar- 
cus to perform the marriage rite — ^will enter, fol- 
lowed by Doctor Simmonds. But do not be afraid, 
even in that seeming dread moment ; for I shall be 
near you, and your friends who love you best, will 
be near you ^ you shall be restored to them, you will 
be happy with them. 

And, Ellinore, you have no time to lose. I have 
the promise of Doctor Sinimonds to keep Marcus 
with him the entire day ; but it is now late in the 
afternoon, and Mai’cus may have need of me ; and, 
to the last, I must be ready to receive him when he 
seeks me, and feign a gladness when he comes. 
Come ! let us put your gowns and linen, and all that 
belongs to you, in your trunk. There must be noth- 
ing left to do to-morrow.’’ 


THE DEVIL AND I. 311 

Then, seeing that I did not move, and did not 
speak, a great terror looked from her eyes. 

Speak, Ellinore! Speak!” she cried, taking a 
fierce hold of me. Heaven forbid ! that you should 
fall a victim to your strange malady, and at the very 
hour that brings the sweets of my revenge most 
near, keep them froin me! For, who knows but — 
if you are othei* than your healthful and wise self — 
that in some way, with the dreadful sureness of his 
evil planning, Marcus may yet triumph, and help 
for us may come too late?” 

At the beginning of her recital, Mabel had forbid- 
den me to interrupt her ; and throughout the greater 
part of it I had sat silent and motionless — save to 
utter, from time to time, an exclamation of wonder, 
of pain, of horror, of joy. But her latest words, the 
words that told me I was soon to leave this prison — 
I, with my father — so soon to look again upon dear, 
living life, and the dear faces of those I loved — ^who 
so loved me ; to hear this, to know this ; the glad 
sense of all I thought, of all I felt, was so overpow- 
ering, that I could neither speak nor move, but 
dumsbly waited for a strength and calmness I had 
not— until I felt the grasp of Mabel’s hand upon my 
arm : and then the fear I took from her terror, lest 
by my own fault I should undo her doing, started 
anew the halting life within my veins to flow on in 


312 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


its own right way. Then, in a quiet way, I spoke ; 
and Mabel was content. And in a little while we 
had neatly parceled all that had made of my prison 
something of a home — ^all that is now my prison lug- 
gage. We made every preparation for my depart- 
ure, so that we shall have nothing to do to-morrow, 
and then Mabel left me. 

It is now past midnight. I have written all that 
I have to write. However, I cannot sleep this night 
— ^the last night that I shall pass within the silence 
and gloom of this that has been so long my prison^ 
and that once I thought would be my tomb ; this last 
night, that is now the beginning of a glad day — the; 
first day of a new glad life. And not yet will I lay^ 
me down, even for repose ; not tiU I have humbly 
knelt in reverential and ecstatic gratitude to Him, 
the Allwise, the Allgood, who has led me through 
His way — ^a way that to my human eyes seemed too 
suffering to be good — ^to this that must be, with my 
father and my husband, a life of precious newness 
and of undreamed of joy. 

Ma y 30th. I am not to look again upon the face 
of the manlike woman. This assurance was jny 
earliest joy of this — ^that is to be a day of joy for 
me. Mabel herself came, at an early hour, with 
my breakfast, and to tell me that her plans ^re 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


313 


progressing precisely as she wished them to do, and 
that I would not see her again until she was sent to 
me by Marcus. ' 

So I am waiting. In a little while I shall leave 
this prison — ^this that I so long believed I should 
never leave, except as dead ! In a little while I shall 
see the blessed sunlight of God’s blessed day ! In 
a little while I shall see, for always, my father and 
Mrs. Edmonds ! In a little while I shall find again, 
and find to keep forever, my love — ^my Court- 
ney ! Let him who can, tell all that I have felt 
within the last waiting hours, all that I now feel of 
hope, of thankfulness — ^for I can not! 

It is now twelve o’clock. Everything is arrangedr 
All whom Mabel expected are here — Chidden away 
in some room of this house of many rooms. I sus- 
pect there is a surprise in store for i5e ; and that I 
shall see some other friendly faces, besides those I 
expect to see. Mabel came half an hour ago, and 
brought my wedding-gown — a dainty, exquisite 
gown, odorous of orange blossoms — ^and I am dressed 
for my marriage. The bridal veil, Mabel says, will 
be ready for me the moment it is needed. 

Was there ever so strange a picture as this — ^this 
gloomy^ silent prison^ transformed into a loudoir 
for a bride? 


314 THE DEVIL AND I. 

From' where I write I can look into the mirror.' 
It is a white, white face I see — so long it has been 
hidden from the sunlight. But — ^yes — ^it is a lovely 
one. I may say this — ^for it is my mother’s face 
I think of when I look on mine, and not my own. 

Mabel is pale; even in the warm lamp light she 
is ghastly pale, with the dreadful redness still on 
either cheek. Her eyes that — since I have seen her 
as she now is — -have never ceased to flame with a 
strange, flerce glow, burn more strangely now, and 
with a fiercer light. There is a dreadful calmness 
in her movements and her gaze. What if she nurse 
some deadly purpose in her soul : — ^ purpose hidden 
from me ? 

Only a minute more — ^to put away this manuscript, 
to close my trunk, that later will be brought to me. 
Only a half minute — ^to glance once more about the 
gloomy prison, and, in the twinkling of an eye, to 
think of all I have suffered here, to think of the 
gladness that now I feel, to look about me, and now 
to say — ^farewell I 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


315 


CHAPTER Vn. 

June 30th. It is just one montli since my strang- 
est of wedding-days. No woman, no wife, was ever 
so happy as I am. Other women, other wives, 
have been as much loved as I am loved, and Have 
had as much to make them happy as I have had to 
make me happy. But the extraordinary experiences 
of my past — extraordinary in their horribleness, in 
their pain ; the cruel robbery for so long a time of 
all I had to love, of all that made my happiness — ^the 
memory of this, makes, me to feel a joy in being 
loved, in being once more happjs that no other one 
can feel. So, too, long buried in my tomblike prison, 
with no single hope to see again this earth of life, 
no one, so well as I, can know how good it is to live. 
I can not breathe enough the outer, open air, that 
with each respiration I send back a prayer of thank- 
fulness that I am yet living, and not dead. 

I have not had an hour, before this, to finish these 
pages as they should be finished. I do not like to 
write now ; writing was so much a part of jmy 
buried prison, and my thoughts go wandering to the 
dear life about me. Mrs. Edmonds is near me now ; 
Courtney is still nearer, and from time to time, with 


316 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


a light caressj helps me to the task that lies before 

^e. 

Everything happened, that morning of mornings, 
as we had expected, and as Mabel had arranged it to 
happen — even the horrible thing that happened to 
M^abel, and that only she must have prepared for 
and expected. 

The moment we had ascended to the room, that 
had been my first prison, Mabel — ^who was in her 
old disguise — ^left me ; and in a little while Marcus 
came. Eemembering Mabel, I shivered, as if from 
cold, and drew the long wrap close about me, to 
hide more surely my wedding-gown. 

He was not changed. Handsome,* audacious, 
cruel, wicked: the same Marcus — ^the same devil. 
He said his wiU, and I — again remembering Mabel — 
made no answer, but sat in sullen silence, as if des- 
pairing. My manner pleased him. There was no 
scene, no resistance. I am sure he found it easier 
than he could have hoped, to work his purpose, and 
that it was useless to waste time in threats that 
were not needed ; and so he gave the signal. Then 
through the open door came first the fiorid faced, 
the dead white handed man — ^that was no less a 
viUian to me, that now, for his own safety, he saw 
best to be my father’s friend, and mine, — and then 
the clergyman, chosen by Marcus. These came, and 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


317 


the rite — ^that was then a wicked one — ^T\"ent on until 
the words, — ‘‘If any one know why this marriage 
should not be, so let him speak ! ” 

And quick the panel slided back from the hidden 
door-way of my room, and a firm voice — ^that came 
with each word nearer — responded, — 

J, as the father of this woman^ forbid it ! ” and 
now quite near, he placed his arm about me. J, 
as the father also of that man, forbid it ! ” and with 
a stern gaze‘, pointing, he looked at Marcus, 
“ Look ! — Marcus Pancho ! ’’ he added, baring tlien 
his bosom ; “ look upon this cross and anchor — ^the 
marks that you too bear upon your bosom; the 
cross that marked you mine from your birth, the 
anchor that my own hands made — ^that I might 
know you always as my son, and you know me as 
father 

Then Marcus, amazed, and trembling at the truth 
that was for him a terror, with a changed voice 
gasped, — 

“And if — if you are indeed my father, who is 
here to prove the lie that you are the father also 
of — of this woman I would make my wile? Who 
will say that you are Keginald Trevalyn — ah, trick-' 
ster — who ? 

And, for his answer, my father glanced toward 
the sliding panel. 


318 


THE DEVIL AND L 


I ! — ’’and towards us came the noble presence 
of a stranger. Chaiincy Arnold, your father’s 
friend and lawyer ! ” 

And I ! — ” this from the florid faced, the dead 
white handed man. “I too am here to say the truth : 
that this man is Eeginald Trevalyn, Sir Keginald — 
now I know — who was confined here years ago, for 
treatment, by the woman who was not Sir Keginald’s 
wife, but yet who was your mother !” 

Marcus was vanquished. With his quick per- 
ception he felt that at last he knew the truth j and 
that his mother had taught him to believe a lie. 

Go ! ” he said to the clergyman ; there will be 
no marriage.” 

He was himself again ; and, with a matchless 
coolness, faced us smiling, bowed — and turned from 
our presence; but started back, trembling, and 
livid; as entering face to face with him, as he 
receded, came a tall form all draped in black — in 
dead, funereal black. Each of us felt the awful 
something that we saw upon the woman’s face ; the 
woman herself, was Mabel Livingston. 

“Nay,” she said in a voice of dreadful calmness, 
“there will be a marriage! Here is the waiting 
bride! — ” and fastening the bridal veil about my 
head, she laid her hand on me. “ And here is the 
bride-groom ! — pointing then at Courtney. “ And 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


ai9 

there the holy man, chosen by good people, to make 
these two — ^loving, and long waiting hearts — one ! 
And there are the friends to witness, and to bless 
this marriage ! ” And while she spoke, she signaled 
each one as he camej first — and following Court- 
ney — ^the holy man with face of holy sweetness. 
Then Mrs. Edmonds and Ned — one in glad tears, 
the other faintly smiling. And then — for my sur-/ 
prise — my old time friend, my childliood’s and my 
first youth’s friend — ^Mr. Sinclair. Nearest to me 
and Courtney stood the noble stranger, linked arm 
in arm, in brother closeness, to my father. All 
these, the friends most dear to me, stood grouped 
about me, waiting to look on the solemn joy — for 
it could be no other joy, in this sad place, and after 
our long and dreadful parting — of our strange 
marriage. 

Marcus stood alone, vanquished, gloomy ; looking 
for once the hate of a Mephistophiles, and not of a 
lower devil. And there, with my hand in Court- 
ney’s, pledging in sweet and prayerful words my 
love and life to him j I felt, for the first time, the 
only time in all my life, a pity for the dark souled 
man that rested like a shadow upon the scene, and 
that, without my looking, I could see before me. 
Near him stood Mabel ; and when the rite was done, 
I looked at her, and not alone; for every eye was 


320 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


turned upon the face whereon we saw again the 
awful something, for which — forgetting the bride- 
groom and the bride — ^with fear in our eyes, and 
with bated breath, we waited. 

^^See!” she said, in the same voice of dreadful 
quiet, taking the hand of Marcus in her own, while 
the other she held outstretched toward Courtney 
and me; ^‘See the blissful, holy happiness, that 
crowns the love of a virtuous man and woman ! 
Marcus, — that is EUinore’s revenge! But tJiiSy — 
is mine ! ” 

There was a sudden flash, a sharp report, a heavy, 
fall. This was the death of Marcus — this was 
Mabel’s revenge. 

Back from the lifeless form, with a wild shriek, 
and then a wilder laugh, she fled — ^the poor, mad 
Mabel ! For with the dying out of the dread calm- 
ness — that died out with the life she took — came 
madness. 

We went to her, in a little while — ^when we had 
left the dead — I nearest, with soothing voices and 
gentle words, to call her back to reason. It was too 
late. Smiling, she waved us back; then, staring — 
she was dead. A subtle and deadly poison, that we 
found upon her, imbued her veins. She had long 
taken it, so the physician said — ^for this the ghastly 
pallor, and the di'eadful redness of the cheek. At 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


321 


the latest minute she had taken enough — poor soul ! 
that with the dying of the man she loved, she 
might insure her death. 

****** 

Mr. Livingston is dead. He died, they say, of 
that slow and wasting malady — consumption. I 
think it was his heart that broke, and pride that 
made it slow in breaking — ^f or he loved Mabel. 

I have seen Mrs. Livingston. Once, only, I saw 
her. It was last Sunday, at church. By a strange 
happening, Courtney and 1 were shown to the pew 
directly behind her. Her hair is silvery white, and 
she is an aged woman. But hers is not the white- 
ness, nor the age of time — ^for she too loved Mabel. 
The service over, I waited. For my life I could not 
help it ; I so longed to tell her something of Mabel. 
Turning, she looked at me, then started back, while 
a flush quick swept over her face, and then a pale- 
ness ; and then, frowning and queenly — she passed 
out. She will never know aU that I know — ^unless, 
perchance, she read these pages. But when I have 
gone to England, she wiU be given a letter that will 
tell her where to find — ^alas ! all that is left of her 
child to find — ^the grave of Mabel. 


322 


THE DEVIL AND I. 


In a week we shall sail for England. Father is 
already there. He went with Ohauncy Arnold, him 
who is more than friend — ^who is as dear as a much 
loved brother. Thanks to the talent and the energy 
of this dear friend — that with the help of Mabel 
had made all ready — ^my father, as Sir Keginald, 
takes easily his vast possessions and his place 
within the social world, of which he was so large a 
part. 

Mrs. Edmonds will leave her western home for- 
ever, to live with us — Courtney and me. We — save 
Ned — ^love her best, and cannot count our happiness 
complete without her. She will come later, with 
Ned, — ^who henceforth one with his mother, in her 
home, will be one with us. 

But we are not to go alone — Courtney and I. Back 
to fair England, back to her fair English home; 
back to the sunny gai’den where she played — ^to the 
spot in it of all the most beautiful ; there where 
they whom she loved, still loving her, may sit and 
talk of her; there where we may look upon her 
green and blossoming grave : there we shall bear the 
ashes of our sister and our friend — ^there we shall 
bear all that is left to us of our loving and our loved 
Georgine. 


THE END. 


G. W- DILLINGHAEVS, Successor, 



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